iiil 
 

 
 
CARL WERNER, 
 
 AN IMAGINATIVE STORY; 
 
 WITH OTHER 
 
 TALES OF IMAGINATION 
 
 BY THE AUTHOR OP 
 
 THE YEMASSEE," "GUY RIVERS : 
 "MELLICHAMPE," &c. 
 
 IN TWO VOLUMES. 
 
 VOL.I.4W,// 
 
 NEW YORK: 
 GEORGE ADLARD, 46 BROADWAY. 
 
 1838. 
 
ENTERED, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1838, by 
 
 W. GILMORE SIMMS, 
 in the Clerk's Office of the Southern District of New York. 
 
 CRAIGHEAD & ALLEN, PRINTERS, 
 112 Fulton Street. 
 
TO 
 
 PROSPER M. WETMORE, 
 
 IN TOKEN OP THE 
 
 HIGH ESTEEM AND AFFECTIONATE REGARD 
 OP 
 
 THE AUTHOR. 
 
ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 THE first story in this collection is founded upon a pas 
 sage from an ancient monkish legend, which the lover of anti 
 quarian lore will most probably remember. The treatment of 
 the subject is, however,' entirely my own ; and the circumstance 
 in the history of the two young men, upon which the catastrophe 
 depends, is too frequent among the thoughtless of every nation 
 to make it the peculiar property of any. The strifes between the 
 rival moral principles of good and evil, have also been a subject 
 of frequent celebration in the form of allegory ; though, I believe, 
 that, in this respect, my claim to originality will also be undis 
 puted. In the character of the venerable guest of Matilda, it 
 will be seen that I have ventured upon a faint delineation of one 
 of the apostles, and that I have moreover presumed to suggest a 
 notion of their continued toils on earth in the cause of heaven. 
 Such a theory "does not, it appears to me, seem altogether incompa 
 tible with the history of the strifes of good and evil, as afforded 
 by the sacred volume ; and, indeed, must somewhat help us in the 
 hope which we entertain, according to the holy promise, of the 
 final and complete triumph of the former. I trust, in what I have 
 done, I will not be found to have trespassed beyond the limits of 
 propriety. The other tales, with, perhaps, a single exception, 
 belong to the same moral imaginative class with the first. They 
 have been written at various periods in my brief career of author 
 ship. Two of them, it may be well to state, were published 
 with other titles than they bear in this collection. The change 
 was made in consequence of my discovering subsequently that 
 similar titles had been employed by other writers, which might, 
 to the casual reader, suggest an idea of identity between them, 
 which exists neither in the subject, nor the mode of treatment. 
 They are only republished in this collection as they belqng pro 
 perly to the classification which distinguishes the work. 
 

 CONTENTS OF VOLUME I. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 CARL WERNER, 1 
 
 IPSISTOS 91 
 
 THE STAR BRETHREN 155 
 
 ONEA AND ANYTA, . 209 
 

 CARL WERNER 
 
 
 
CARL WERNER. 
 
 AN IMAGINATIVE STORY 
 
 I. 
 
 " WITH what a sober and saintly sweetness do 
 these evening lights stream around us. What a 
 spiritual atmosphere is here ! Do you not feel 
 it?" 
 
 My friend did not immediately answer my ques 
 tion, and when he did, his reply was rather to the 
 mood of mind in which I had spoken, than to the 
 words which I had uttered. We were walking, to 
 wards the close of day, in one of the deepest parts 
 of a German forest, through which the sunlight pe 
 netrated only with imperfect and broken rays. The 
 vista, which was limited by the dusk, was covered 
 with flitting shadows, and wild aspects, that won us 
 farther at each succeeding moment in their pursuit. 
 The cathedral picturesqueness of the scene warm- 
 
 VOL. i. 1 
 
^ CARL WERNER. 
 
 ed us both, and when my friend replied to me, I 
 felt that our fancies were the same. 
 
 "You have no faith, I believe, in popular super 
 stitions you never yield yourself up to your 
 dreams?" 
 
 Something of a feeling of self-esteem kept me 
 from answering sincerely to this question. I felt, 
 at that instant, a guilty consciousness of a 
 growing respect for the legends of the wonder- 
 loving land in which I wandered. My answer 
 was evasive. 
 
 "What mean you your question is a wide 
 one?" 
 
 "Elsewhere it might be, but here here in 
 Germany it would seem specific enough. Brief 
 ly you have no faith in ghosts you do not 
 believe in the thousand and one stories which 
 imagination hourly weaves for the ear and the ap 
 prehensions of credulity." 
 
 " To speak truly, I have not often thought of 
 this matter until now. The genius loci has some 
 what provoked m}' fancy, and triumphed over my 
 indifference if indifference it be. Ghost stories, 
 though frequent enough, are, as frequently, sub 
 jects of common ridicule ; and the hearer, if he 
 does believe, finds it prudent to keep his faith se 
 cret, if it be only to escape the laughter of his 
 
CARL WERNER. t> 
 
 companions. This may have been the case with 
 me, and from seeking to deceive my neighbors 
 on this head, it is not improbable that I have fully 
 succeeded in at last deceiving myself; and have 
 come to doubt sincerely. But of this I will not 
 be certain. I am not sure that I should not par 
 take of the sensibilities of any timid urchin, at the 
 sudden appearance of any suspicious object in any 
 suspicious place." 
 
 "Ha! ha! I see you are no sceptic. You are 
 for the ghosts you certainly believe in them." 
 
 " Not so !" I replied, somewhat hastily ; " I 
 cannot be said to believe or disbelieve. I have 
 no facts no opinions on the subject, and there 
 fore cannot be supposed to have arrived at any 
 conviction respecting it. I have scarcely given 
 it a thought, and my impressions are rather those 
 of the temperament and memory than the mind. 
 Warm blood makes me jump frequently to conclu 
 sions upon which I never think ; and the stories 
 of boyhood, in this respect, will, long after the boy 
 has become a man, stagger his strength with the 
 images produced on his imagination by a grand- 
 dame's narratives at that susceptible period. My 
 notions of the marvellous arise almost entirely 
 from my feelings feelings kindled by such sto 
 nes, and, it may be, rendered vivid by a natural 
 
4 CARL WERNER. 
 
 tinct of superstition, which few of us seem to be 
 free from, and which may, perhaps, be considered 
 the best of arguments in defence of such a faith." 
 
 My friend mr<de no immediate answer a pause 
 ensued in our speech, but not in our movement. 
 We walked on, and the shadows became more thick 
 around us. The scattered lights of evening grew 
 fainter and fewer, and I perceived that the mood 
 of my companion, like my own, had undergone a 
 corresponding change. Sad thoughts mingled 
 with strange thoughts in our minds, and when he 
 again spoke, it was evident that he felt the night. 
 He resumed the subject. 
 
 " I have not been willing to believe, but I feel, 
 and feeling brings the faith. I have reason to 
 suspect myself of a leaning to these superstitions, 
 and discover myself inclining to conviction the 
 more I indulge in solitude. Solitude is one of the 
 parents of superstition. The constant wakeful- 
 ness and warring strifes of selfish interests, 
 which prevail in the city and among the crowd, 
 drive away such thoughts, and, indeed, all 
 thoughts which incline to reverence ; and it is 
 only when I get into the country among these 
 solemn shades and deep recesses that I find my 
 superstitions coming back to me with a thousand 
 other sensibilities. It is then that my memory 
 
CARL WERNER. O 
 
 goes over the old grounds of my childhood ; and 
 that the fancies of an early romance become invig 
 orated within me : it is then that I give credence 
 to the unaccountable story that we sometimes hear 
 from the lips of more credulous or more experi 
 enced companions. Their earnestness and faith 
 strengthen and awaken ours the fancy grows 
 into form, and the form, at length, from frequent 
 contemplation, becomes almost sensible to the 
 touch. We continue to contemplate until we be 
 lieve ; and there is not a faculty or sense that we 
 have, which does not at last become satisfied, 
 along with our fancies, of the rich reality which 
 the latter have but dreamed." 
 
 " I am not so sure that they dream only," was 
 my serious reply. " Why, if the doctrine of the 
 soul's immortality be true why should it not re 
 turn to the spot which kindred affections have 
 made holy why may it not do a service to the 
 living? prevent a wrong?- reveal a secret, or 
 by some ministry, which could not have been per 
 formed so well by any but itself, do that which 
 may help the surviving to some withheld rights, 
 to some suppressed truth or to some unlocked 
 for means of safety from tyranny and injustice ?" 
 
 " True that might have been an argument at 
 one period in the history of the world ; but the 
 1* 
 
6 CARL WERNER. 
 
 world has grown wiser, if not better, in later days! 
 a thousand modes are now in our possession for 
 discovering the truth, to one at that time when 
 spirits were allowed to return to earth. The days 
 of miracle are gone by. The spirits from the 
 vasty deep' do not come to us, however loudly we 
 may call for them." 
 
 " Who shall say that ?" was my reply. " Who 
 shall answer for the necessity. It may occur now 
 as it has occurred before, nor is it an argument 
 against the belief, that man has grown wise enough 
 to find out the truth for himself, after judicial forms, 
 without the need of any such revisitings of the 
 moon. If wisdom has grown mighty to find out the 
 truth, crime has also grown proportionably cunning 
 to conceal it ; and virtue suffers the injustice, and 
 vice escapes, even now, from a just punishment, 
 quite too frequently, when it were to be desired that 
 some honest ghost could be evoked from the 
 grave, to set the erring judgment of man aright. 
 Coleridge considers it a conclusive argument 
 against the notion, that the ghost of a man's 
 breeches should appear with him. This may be 
 a good joke, but it is a poor argument. If it be 
 once admitted, that for wise and beneficial pur 
 poses the just Providence shall permit the depart 
 ed spirit to return to the earth, where it once abode, 
 
CARL WERNER. / 
 
 it will be necessary that it should put on that garb 
 and appearance which shall make it more readily 
 known by those whom it seeks ; since its purpose, 
 in its return to earth, might only be effected by its 
 appearance in proper person. I can conceive of 
 no difficulty in this ; since it must be obvious that 
 as the appearance of the spectre is the work of 
 God, himself, with Him the toil is equally easy 
 of giving the spirit its guise of flesh and fashion, 
 and of preparing the mind of the spectator so that 
 his eye shall behold the object, whether it appear 
 in reality or not." 
 
 "The subject is one," said my friend, " which 
 invariably forces itself upon me when I am in soli 
 tude. We are now in a place singularly accom 
 modated to thoughts and things of this nature. 
 There is a venerable gloom and gravity about 
 these old trees. You see that none of them are 
 young, yet the grounds have neither been cleared 
 nor grubbed, to my recollection, for many years. 
 The aged branches have stretched out innumera 
 ble arms, and bend, with their accumulated weight 
 of years upon them, even to the ground. They 
 have the air of a group of sainted Druids, such as 
 the Romans annihilated. Black and frowning, 
 yonder mountain overhangs the wood, protecting, 
 yet threatening. It has the look of a blasted 
 
8 CARL WERNER. 
 
 thing, and it must be a haunted one. The ruins 
 which you behold at a little distance to the left, 
 admirably consort with the rest of the picture. A 
 gray mist seems to hang over and to hallow them, 
 until even the beautiful knoll of green which rises 
 in front of them seems offensively garish from the 
 exceeding depth of its contrast. Those are the 
 ruins of an ancient monastery, which the supersti 
 tious fancies of the neighborhood have long since 
 peopled with a fraternity of immaterials, suffi 
 ciently numerous and wild to consecrate to their 
 peculiar purposes a situation of the kind. They 
 are not often intruded upon, except by myself; 
 and as I have a story to tell which properly be 
 longs to them, it will not be out of place if I tell it 
 to you there. Some of the old monuments will 
 give us a pleasant seat, and among the dead only, 
 as we then shall be, we shall be in no danger of 
 suffering interruption or disturbance from the idle 
 footstep of the obtrusive living." 
 
 II. 
 
 " We are in Germany," continued my compa 
 nion; " of course I do not tell you this with any 
 other object, than simply to remind you, that you 
 
CARL WERNER. 
 
 are in a land, of all others, one of the most re 
 nowned for its superstitions, its wild fancies, its 
 marvellous imaginations. The minds of its people 
 have become spiritualized by the popular faith ; and 
 thought takes the shape of poetry at its birth, and 
 fancy is busy every where. Their rivers and their 
 rocks, their green knolls and sinking valleys, their 
 dense forests, wild wastes, and deserted ruins, like 
 these around us, are all haunted and venerable. 
 The dell and dingle have their different spirits, the 
 wood and rivulet theirs ; and the gentle-hearted 
 peasants who inhabit them are, in some instances, 
 almost as rigidly tenacious of the privileges of the 
 genius loci, as they are of their own rights and re 
 ligion. A tale of diablerie will not, therefore, seem 
 out of place, in a region so abundantly supplied 
 with this material ; and the story which I am 
 about to relate to you, though differing materially 
 from those which we are accustomed to hear, is 
 yet as native to this neighborhood as any of the 
 rest. The parties who figure in it, were born in 
 
 the little hamlet of , not a mile distant, and 
 
 you will hear the story from any of the villagers 
 to whom you may refer for confirmation of it. 
 
 " It is now about fifty years since the events 
 which I am about to relate to you are said to 
 have occurred. The village of stood then 
 
10 CARL WERNER. 
 
 pretty much as it does now, except that there were 
 then two families in it, of which there are no de 
 scendants or surviving relics now. The family of 
 Herman Ottfried was one of the most respectable 
 in it; nor was that of Carl Werner less so. The 
 former consisted only of Herman, and the fair 
 Matilda, his sister; while that of Carl Werner 
 existed in himself alone. He was an onlj' child, 
 whose mother had been long since dead, and whose 
 father had died just before the time when my nar 
 rative begins. Herman was about twenty-five 
 years of age, Carl Werner not more than twenty- 
 one yet they were inseparable friends. Matilda, 
 the sister of Herman, was but seventeen ; and it is 
 more than probable, that the great intimacy be 
 tween Carl and Herman, and the strong regard 
 which the former professed for the latter, arose 
 from the yet stronger feeling which he entertained 
 for the sister. But of this anon. Herman was a 
 good natured, laughing, and mischievous creature, 
 ready always for fun and frolic, not easily appre 
 hensive of danger, nor always scrupulous about 
 proprieties in his pranks. He had good sense 
 enough to keep him from any extravagant folly, 
 or extreme rashness ; and good feeling enough to 
 restrain him from any excess which might inflict 
 pain upon the deserving and the good. He was 
 
CARL WERNER. 
 
 11 
 
 of graceful person, manly and strong, brave, gen 
 erous, and well-principled. The favorite of the 
 village, he was yet wanting in one of those traits of 
 character in which all beside him were abundantly 
 provided he had no more faith in a ghost than 
 he had in a sermon ; and though not deficient in 
 proper veneration, he had but slight regard for 
 either. 
 
 " In this respect, as in several others, he differed 
 greatly from his more youthful friend and compa 
 nion, Carl Werner. Carl was superstitious to the 
 last degree ; his memory was perfectly crowded 
 with legends the most extravagant, and he had a 
 feverish and perpetual desire, continually, to in 
 crease his collection. He was, in very truth, a 
 dreamer one of those gifted men, who see strange 
 sights and hear^imcommon sounds, which are de 
 nied to the vulgar faculty ; and his senses were 
 accordingly employed always in scenting out and 
 searching after the supernatural. But let me not 
 be understood to say that Carl was a simpleton. 
 Far from it. He was, in reality, as I have phrased 
 it alreadjr, a highly gifted man. He was a poet 
 a man of quick and daring imagination one 
 whose verses were full of fire, and acknowledged 
 to be of more than ordinary merit, but he was 
 rather too much of a mystic. Deeply impregna- 
 
12 CARL WERNER. 
 
 ted with the traditionary lore of ' The Teuton,' and 
 irritably alive to all its exciting influences, the fan 
 cy which was in him, the active and subtle spirit 
 of his thoughts, gathered from all objects and as 
 sociations food and stimulant for its own conti 
 nued exercise. His very existence, so deeply had 
 he drank of the witch beverage and been led away 
 into the haunted forests of his fancy, had become 
 rather metaphysical than real. His life w r as pass 
 ed in dreams ; and even his love for Matilda, so 
 far from humanizing his mind and binding it to 
 earth, seemed to have the effect of elevating it the 
 more, and of making it hourly more and more spi 
 ritual ; until, at length, he appeared to regard the 
 maiden rather as a creation of his thought a 
 dream of heaven than an object for the contem 
 plation and the enjoyment of his senses. His life 
 was thus diseased by his imagination, while yet in 
 the green, in the blossom, and the bud. 
 
 III. 
 
 "Between Herman and his sister, the soul and 
 person of Carl Werner were pretty evenly divi 
 ded. When not with one, he was with the other ; 
 and when not separately with either, he was sure 
 
CARL WERNER. 
 
 13 
 
 to be with both. Though the tastes and tempers 
 of the two young men seemed greatly to differ to 
 the common eye, their sympathies ran strangely 
 together. Their sports and studies, though not 
 alike, seemed nevertheless to bring them together 
 always. Their habits were equally wandering, 
 and while the poetry of Carl made him musing, 
 meditative, and abstracted in his habits, it led him 
 the more to delight in those practical tendencies 
 in the mind of his companion, which suggested a 
 character directly the reverse. Herman, too, was 
 pleased with the fellowship of a thinking being, 
 and one who could furnish names and definitions 
 for all his own occasional and half-digested imagi 
 nings and thoughts. They had neither of them 
 much system in their pursuits, and far less in their 
 studies. Books they read, not by selection, but as 
 they happened to fall into their hands ; or, rather, 
 Carl would read them, and describe their character 
 and unfold their contents to his companion, who, 
 in his own experience, could most generally re 
 member adventures to correspond with and match 
 those which Carl related to him. In this manner 
 they became mutual dependants, and hence, some 
 of the secret of their intimacy. They would fol 
 low each without much, or at best with a 
 momentary opposition the moods and prompt- 
 VOL. i. 2 
 
14 CARL WERNER. 
 
 ings of the other the momentary impulse being 
 the sufficient governor, and to that they most 
 generally left the direction of studies and amuse 
 ments alike. The feeling which prompted the 
 one, if not exactly like that which filled the bosom 
 of the other, was seldom offensive to it: and we 
 need not wonder, thus situated and circumstanced, 
 if they grew together, to the almost complete exclu 
 sion of all the village beside the fair and gentle 
 Matilda alone being excepted. 
 
 IV. 
 
 " Let not my preliminaries fatigue you. I can 
 not get on so well without them. My narrative 
 has a comprehensive ground-work, and I must 
 bring the several more striking features of the lo 
 cality, in due order, and, not precipitately, before 
 your eye. Having prepared you, I will now pro 
 ceed : 
 
 "Living, as they did, in the neighboring village, 
 and possessed of tastes equally wandering, and, in 
 the case of Carl, so mingled with romance, it will 
 riot be thought surprising if they spent a great 
 deal of their leisure time among these old ruins. 
 They were ruins then, and no obtrusive utilitarian 
 
CARL WERNER. 
 
 15 
 
 has presumed, as you may see, to take from their 
 gray loveliness hy making them more useful. The 
 charm of the spot is the same now as then if 
 possible, indeed, the beauty of the ruins is even 
 greater, for the walls have suffered from subse 
 quent tempests, and desolation has made more 
 complete her broken temple. Time is the ally of 
 romance, and decay takes nothing from her ho 
 nors ! The source and secret of their beauty have 
 been steadily increasing ; and the domain, loved 
 by the German youth of whom we speak, is, per 
 haps, scarcely less attractive now to us. Touch 
 ed, as these dismembered and massive fragments 
 at this moment are, by the mellow hues of the 
 fleeting and flickering sunlight, they are, in my 
 eyes, immeasurably beautiful ; and seern to me 
 as they did to Carl Werner, a fitting abode for 
 the sleepless and sad spirit doomed to its mid 
 night vigil of a thousand years. 
 
 " The imagination of Carl Werner had peopled 
 these ruins with a countless host of inmates, with 
 wild traditions, with the most pitiable and strange 
 narratives. It was the theatre where his invention 
 became most active, and where he continually ex 
 ercised it, as much for his own, as for the pleasure 
 which it gave to Matilda and Herman. He had 
 explored the many cells which abound among the 
 
16 CARL WERNER. 
 
 ruins he had groped through the ancient cham 
 bers, until he had, from conjectures frequently ex 
 ercised, come to the belief that he could actually 
 assign the various uses to which they were put : 
 and, in some cases, through the aid of local 
 tradition and domestic history, he even ventured 
 so far as to say who were their occupants. Though 
 superstitious to the last degree, and most wilfully 
 credulous, Carl Werner had no idle fears. The 
 abbey was his favorite resort even at midnight, 
 and with Herman, who was something of a dare 
 devil, along with him, a ramble through the old 
 chambers at night, when the rising moon began to 
 peep through the cracks and fissures, was a favor 
 ite mode with Carl Werner of passing those plea 
 sant hours. It is true, that, art such times, Matilda 
 never ventured along with the two ; but the warm 
 and spirited fancy of Carl enabled him to embody 
 for her ears, when they met, the sweet, strange 
 thoughts of his mind, which, at such periods, 
 formed the topic of conversation between him and 
 his companion. These were themes upon which 
 Carl never failed to be eloquent, and Matilda al 
 ways loved to hear. At other times, the three 
 would wander while the day lasted, in a sort of 
 mental and dreamy unconsciousness, among the 
 broken walls, turning thoughtlessly over the mar- 
 
CARL WERNER 17 
 
 ble stones, laboring now and then lo decipher the 
 inscriptions, and toiling through the ancient 
 grounds and over the green grave knolls about 
 the edifice ; until, as the sun began to wane, Ma 
 tilda, with a growing and beautiful timidity al 
 ways becoming in a young and lovely woman 
 would hurry them homeward, leaving the unfin 
 ished story of Carl to find its conclusion at the 
 evening fireside, which generally brought them 
 all together like one family. They were soon to 
 become one, it may as well be said, for, seizing a 
 favorable moment, the gentle and fond Carl had 
 whispered to the maiden that he loved her, and she 
 did not hesitate long to promise that she would be 
 his. The time was designated for the nuptials, and 
 the two were quite as happy as mutual love, and 
 so pleasant a hope, could possibly make them. 
 
 V. 
 
 " One afternoon, a few weeks prior to the time 
 appointed for the marriage, Carl and Matilda went 
 forth upon their usual rambles. Herman w 7 ent not 
 with them. He had gone away from the village 
 on some alleged business, though, it is more than 
 probable, that he had simply excused himself, with 
 2* 
 
18 CARL WERNER. 
 
 a delicate sense of propriety, from adding to a 
 party which under existing circumstances could do 
 very well without him. The fond Carl had more 
 than once been indebted in this manner to the kind 
 consideration of his friend. Thus, left to them 
 selves, the lovers wandered off in the usual direc 
 tion, and were soon embosomed in the haunted 
 shades of the ancient abbey. They seated them 
 selves among the monuments, and discoursed of 
 the old time stories; and, with each remembered 
 legend, the timid Matilda, with a most natural 
 fear, would creep closer to her lover, and the fond 
 Carl, with a most natural protection, at length en 
 circled her waist with his arms ; and the ghosts of 
 ancient years were forgotten by the happy pair, in 
 the delicious realities of their present situation. 
 
 " But a sudden step, as of one approaching, dis 
 turbed their dream of felicity. It was Herman. 
 He came, with an air of impatient pleasure and 
 slow regret, mingled up in his manner. As he 
 drew nigh, he handed a letter to Carl, and bade 
 him read it. 
 
 " It is from my uncle, old Ulrich Ottfried of 
 Amsterdam, and he writes for me to come to him 
 immediately. The place he promised rne is at 
 length vacant, and I must lose no time to secure 
 it I must leave you.' 
 
CARL WERNER. 19 
 
 " ' Leave us, dear brother !' exclaimed Matilda. 
 
 " ' Leave us, Herman !' said Carl. 
 
 "< Ay, leave you !' replied the brother, leave 
 you, to be sure. Would you have me sit here, 
 purring like a tame cat all my life, when there I 
 have a chance to be somebody, and see the great 
 city/ 
 
 " ' And will you leave us, Herman ?' said the 
 girl reproachfully, and the tears stood in her eyes, 
 
 " ' Pshaw, 'Tilda ! no tears now, I beg you. 
 They're not true they're not natural. You 
 know you won't miss me, and there's no reason 
 why you should. You have Carl there, and he'll 
 be more to you than ever I can be. He suits you 
 better; and I know him too well to be afraid to 
 leave you to his hands.' 
 
 " ' Dear Herman !' said Carl, ' but you will not 
 go soon you will stay to the wedding.' 
 
 " ' I can't the letter, you see, urges my in 
 stant departure ; and I'm too anxious to get the 
 place to risk the loss of it by any idle delay. It's 
 true, I'm sorry to part with you ; but, as I said, I 
 leave you both in good hands. You love 'Tilda, 
 and she loves you, and I believe you will be quite 
 as happy with each other, as if I looked on myself, 
 and saw all your happiness.' 
 
 " The hand of Carl pressed that of Matilda, and 
 
20 CARL WERNER. 
 
 her's returned the pressure, at these words. Carl 
 then demanded of Herman when he proposed to 
 set forth. His prompt answer surprised and pain 
 ed his hearers. 
 
 " ' To-morrow,' said he, ' at early dawn, I 
 travel.' 
 
 " * To-morrow !' exclaimed Matilda, * dear bro 
 ther, you cannot mean it !' 
 
 " So soon, Herman !' said Carl. 
 
 "'Ay, to-morrow so soon !' was the reply. 
 ' It's hard. I find it harder than I thought, to 
 leave you you, dear 'Tilda for you have been 
 a dear, sweet sister to me always ; and you Carl, 
 who have been a brother after my heart's wish : I 
 find it very hard to leave you, but I can't help 
 it ; nor, indeed, if I could, would I. The place 
 is every thing to me, and I can make my fortune 
 in it. My uncle, if I please him, promises to take 
 me with him into business. Read the letter, Carl 
 see how fairly the good old fellow speaks. He 
 is a good old fellow he always loved me. I was 
 his favorite, 'Tilda he never thought much of 
 you. But, never you mind there's no good 
 fortune that comes to Herman that you shall not 
 share both of you. So, it matters not much 
 which of us the old man loved it's the same 
 
CARL WERNER. 21 
 
 thing ; but go I must, and, as I've told you already, 
 I go to-morrow.' 
 
 " This seemed a settled matter in the mind of 
 Herman, and it produced a melancholy feeling in 
 that of Carl. It seemed to impress Matilda even 
 more gloomily, as well it might ; for Herman was 
 an only brother, and having neither mother nor 
 father, the privation, she well knew, must be se 
 verely felt. She had no longer spirit to remain 
 abroad, and closely attended by the young men, 
 she returned, in sorrowful temper, to her cottage. 
 
 VI. 
 
 " You may be sure that was a gloomy evening in 
 the house of Matilda ; and not even the well-satis 
 fied love of the betrothed, could make it otherwise 
 to either of them. Herman was quite too dear to 
 his sister and his friend, to suffer them, at such a 
 moment, to feel their own felicity as perfect, just 
 when they were about to be deprived of him, per 
 haps for ever. The maiden felt so unhappy, that 
 she retired at an early hour, and the two young- 
 men wandered forth to talk over their several pro 
 jects, and the various, and we may add, the sor 
 rowful thoughts, with which their approaching 
 
22 CARL WERNER. 
 
 separation had filled them both. They had been 
 so long as one so perfectly inseparable, hitherto 
 that it is not to be wondered at, if they were al 
 most unmanned by it. Carl, indeed, suffered far 
 more than Herman. The latter had the excite 
 ments of a new world in promise before him the 
 prospects of bettering his fortunes, and, besides 
 this, he was of a more elastic and lively temper 
 than his friend. He could very well bestow con 
 solation, where other wanderers would have needed 
 it. Carl had been always a dependant upon Her 
 man, whose excellent spirits and generous mood 
 had frequently neutralized the excessive mor 
 bidness of his imagination ; and when the former 
 thought of this, and of his weakness in many 
 respects, he exaggerated to his own mind the 
 greatness of the privation which he was about to 
 undergo. Herman tried his best to console him, 
 and U) the earnestness of their mutual thoughts, 
 they gave no heed to their wanderings. In the 
 first moment of external consciousness, Carl looked 
 up, and the ruins of the ancient abbey were before 
 them. It was a fitting place for their last inter 
 view and private conference. The silence and the 
 gloom of the spot accorded meetly with the sad 
 ness in their bosoms, and they at once entered the 
 sanctuary. They seated themselves upon one of 
 
CARL WERNER. 23 
 
 the broken monuments, and sat for some moments 
 in a moody silence. At length, Carl spoke as fol 
 lows : 
 
 " ' I feel cold all over, Herman, as if a breath 
 from that old vault had breathed upon me. Your 
 contemplated journey aflects me strangely. I 
 know not how I shall bear it. I shall not often 
 ramble among these ruins I may have the dis 
 position to do so I know I will but I shall not 
 have the courage.' 
 
 "* Pshaw!' exclaimed the bolder Herman 
 * how you talk. I know you better than you do 
 yourself, and venture to predict that when I am 
 gone you will be here oftener than ever. You love 
 these ruins.' 
 
 " ' I do I confess it ! they are to me sacred, 
 if only for their recollections,' said Carl. 
 
 " * And ghosts !' continued Herman with a gen 
 tle laugh. ' You love their ghosts, I think, even 
 more than their recollections.' 
 
 " ' Ay, could I see them,' said the other. ' But 
 they are shy ghosts, and did you not hear a 
 breathing ?' *>. 
 
 " Carl turned and looked in the direction of thfe 
 old vault, as he spoke these words, but Herman 
 only laughed at him. Carl laughed too, a mo- 
 
24 GARL WERNER. 
 
 ment after, when he perceived that his weakness 
 had been observed by his friend. 
 
 " * You have nearly roused them, Carl,' said 
 Herman, after his quiet chuckle had subsided. 
 4 But for my laugh they would have been about 
 you. You would have conjured the reverend ab 
 bot from that shattered vault, and a pretty story 
 you would have of it.' 
 
 " Perhaps' said Carl ; * and you would have 
 listened to the story, Herman, without a single 
 interruption. Why is that ? Why is it that you 
 can enjoy a ghost story without believing in the 
 ghost ?' 
 
 " * Why do we enjoy a puzzle which we know 
 can be undone? a mystery when a moment's 
 reflection teaches us that it is no mystery ? It 
 is because the human mind finds a pleasure in that 
 which is ingenious in any thing which shows 
 intellectual power. A fairy tale has a spell for 
 all senses, not because we believe in its magic 
 in its subtlety in its strange devices and wild 
 conceits ; but, that these subtleties, spells, and de 
 vices, appeal to natural desires and attributes of 
 the mind of man. They are beautiful, and as the 
 appreciation of which is beautiful, forms the legit 
 imate object in the exercise of taste, they com 
 mend themselves to every intellect or imagination 
 
CARL WERNER. 25 
 
 that possesses even common activity. You, per 
 haps, are less fortunate than myself, since you be 
 lieve in the ghost ; and a natural sense of appre 
 hension, which your faith necessarily excites in 
 your mind, while the story i? telling, subtracts 
 from the perfect satisfaction with which were 
 you as incredulous as myself you would hear or 
 tell it. You tremble while you narrate, and your 
 eyes are forever looking round to see the object 
 which your fancy conjures up.' 
 
 " ' True, but I do not cease to tell the story. I go 
 on I would go on, though I beheld the ghost.' 
 
 " ' I doubt you !' boldly said the other. ' I be 
 lieve you might try to do so, for I know the ex 
 tent of your moral courage ; but your imagina 
 tion is too powerful for your control ; and this I 
 sometimes fear. I sometimes fear thot you may 
 suffer greatly, when I am gone, in the conflict be 
 tween your imaginative faculty, and your good 
 sense. While I was with you, I had no fear ; for 
 when you looked round for the ghost, I laid it 
 with a laugh. It will rise and haunt you when I 
 arn gone.' 
 
 " ' How can you speak thus, or fear this, when, 
 in the same breath, you deny its existence ?' de 
 manded Carl. 
 
 VOL. i. 3 
 
26 CARL WERNER. 
 
 " ' Oh, I do not deny its existence to you? 
 said Herman ' we can always have the ghost 
 we call for, for imagination is a god. It is the 
 only creator under heaven. Yours is of this sort, 
 and the worlds you people are sometimes too ex 
 tensive for your sway. They will rebel against 
 you.' 
 
 " * I fear them not !' said Carl. < It is my joy 
 to create, and I sometimes pray that with my 
 bodily eyes I may behold the dim but glorious 
 visions of my mind. Yon old abbot, sleeping in 
 the dust and sanctity of a thousand years, could 
 he rise before me now and answer a few questions, 
 I should be most happy.' 
 
 " 'Do not trouble yourself to call upon him 
 he will not trouble himself to come.' 
 
 " * Yet, I am sure,' responded the reverent Carl, 
 turning an anxious look upon the vault, as if soli 
 citing the buried saint to give the lie to his com 
 rade, ' yet, I am sure, that it is not because he 
 cannot.' 
 
 " ' What other reason !' said Herman. He 
 cannot, my dear Carl, and if he could, he would 
 not. He sees if the dead may see aught all 
 around him that he hath ever known or loved in 
 life ; and for us, whom in life he never knew, he 
 hath too little sympathy, to come at our bidding. 
 
CARL WERNER. 27 
 
 There might be some motive for those lately dead 
 to reappear at the requisition of those who still have 
 human and earthly affections struggling with the 
 cares and woes of earth ; and I would that it were 
 possible we could evoke them. I, too, should be 
 a summoner, Carl I, too, should pray that my 
 bodily eyes might behold not the objects of my 
 mind, but the creatures of my heart ! I would 
 give worlds, if I had them, once more to behold 
 my dear mother.' 
 
 " * Could she know your wish, Herman, would 
 she not appear, think you ?' demanded Carl. 
 
 "'The suggestion makes against your argu 
 ment. Carl,' replied the other ' immortal as she 
 is, she must know, she must hear my wish ; yet 
 she does not appear ! wherefore does she not ? 
 she cannot it is written she cannot ; and it is, 
 perhaps, wise and well that she cannot. It might 
 alter my plans it might affect my purposes it 
 might disturb the existing condition of things with 
 out making them better.' 
 
 " ' Herman, could I believe with you, I should 
 be unhappy ; but I cannot. I feel assured that 
 the spirit may return, and make itself known. I 
 do not say visibly to the eye, but in some way or 
 other, to one or more of the senses. Do you re- 
 
28 CARL WERNER. 
 
 member the story of Dame Ulrica, and the silks 
 that rustled in the tiring chamber ?' 
 
 " Ah, no more of that, Carl ; and as you are 
 now getting fairly on the track of the hobgoblins, 
 we may as well stop our confabulation, else shall 
 we not go to bed to-night. Of one thing be sure, 
 if I can revisit you after death, I will ' 
 
 " * Will you promise me thatj Herman ?' de 
 manded the other eagerly. 
 
 " ' Ay, that will I, though I shall try to do it in 
 such a manner as not to scare you. I shall sneak 
 in like a gentle ghost, and shall speak to you in 
 the softest language. Will you really be glad to 
 see me ?' 
 
 " ' Glad ! you will make me happy. It will 
 be a prayer realized. Promise me, dear Herman ! 
 we are about to separate, we know not with 
 what destiny before us. The means of communi 
 cation are few between us, and our anxiety to know 
 of each other will sometimes shoot far ahead of 
 our capacity to receive or yield intelligence. 
 Promise me though heaven grant that you may 
 live long year's after me that should any thing 
 befal you, and the power be with you, you will 
 come to me you will tell me of your own condi 
 tion, and guide me aright in mine ; for my sake, 
 and for the sake of your dear sister, who will so 
 
CARL WERNER. 29 
 
 soon be a part of my life. Will you do this 
 will you promise this, dear Herman.' 
 
 " ' I will to be sure, I will, Carl,' was the re- 
 
 Pty- 
 
 " l Seriously solemnly ?' demanded Carl. 
 
 " 'Seriously solemnly !' said the other; 'but,' 
 he continued if I am to take all this trouble, 
 and expose myself to all risks of wind and weather 
 merely to oblige you, you must do me a similar 
 favor ; for, though I do not believe in any such 
 power on the part of the spirit once gone from 
 earth, nor am I particularly curious on the subject ; 
 yet, while agreeing to satisfy you, Carl, I may 
 just as well exact a similar promise from yourself. 
 Dead or alive, Carl, it will always give me plea 
 sure to see you. I have loved you as a brother, 
 in life I have no fear to behold you after death.' 
 
 " 'It is a pledge a promise, Herman !' was 
 the ready answer ; and with the utterance of the 
 pledge, a hollow laugh resounded from the dis 
 membered vault of the aged abbot 
 
 VII. 
 
 They sprang at once to their feet. Herman 
 laughed back in return, but he remained where he 
 S* 
 
30 CARL WERNER. 
 
 was. Carl trembled like a leaf, but he leapt over 
 the stone on which he had been sitting, and made 
 his way fearlessly towards the vault. Herman 
 followed him. The marble of which the vault had 
 been built was fractured in several places, so that 
 the interior was clear!} visible from without. Carl 
 would have entered it, but Herman opposed his 
 doing so. 
 
 " * Why should you go in we can see the ven 
 erable dust where we stand,' and the eyes of the 
 two peered into the now silent chamber with a 
 scrutinizing gaze that promised to sufTer nothing 
 to escape them. 
 
 " Look !' said Carl; * look, Herman! dost 
 thou not see!' and he pointed to a corner of the 
 vault while speaking. 
 
 " The eyes of Herman saw nothing, however, or 
 he was not willing to acknowledge that they did ; 
 but Carl was more ready to believe, and conse 
 quently more able to see, for, even while he point 
 ed out the object of his sight to Herman, he watch 
 ed it as it glided away through an aperture of the 
 vault a pale bluish flame a fragment, as it 
 were, of light that seemed first to crawl along 
 the walls of the chamber, and then suddenly to 
 disappear through one of its many fissures. 
 
CARL WERNER. 31 
 
 " What is it that you see ? I see nothing,' said 
 Herman. 
 
 " * A light like that of a taper a small, creep 
 ing light, that passed out of the corner to the 
 east.' 
 
 " * Some slimy worm,' said Herman, * though I 
 did not see it at all.' 
 
 " Strange !' exclaimed Carl ; * but you heard 
 the laugh, Herman ?' 
 
 "'Yes,' said the other, 'but whether it came 
 from the vault, or from the opposite wall, I will not 
 pretend to say. Some urchin may think to frighten 
 us from the other side. We will look in that quar 
 ter.' 
 
 " Carl now followed his companion, but he follow 
 ed him unwillingly. Like all true romancers, he 
 had got just enough of the mystery. He was un 
 willing to press the matter farther, lest he should 
 discover that which might jeopard his prize 
 which might enable him, indeed, to ' point the 
 moral,' but which would spoil, rather than ' adorn, 
 the tale.' This, however, was the desire of Her 
 man. He would have given as much to discover 
 that the source of the laugh was human, as Carl 
 would have bestowed to prevent such a discovery. 
 The hopes of the latter prevailed. They search 
 ed behind the suspected walls, but found nothing ; 
 
32 
 
 CARL WERNER. 
 
 and the benefit of the laugh was clearly with the 
 superstitious Carl. After this they left the ruins. 
 The hour was getting late, and as they had still a 
 great deal to say of sublunary concerns, it did not 
 need that they should take the haunted abbey for 
 this purpose. The next morning Herman took 
 his departure. Carl saw him a little way upon 
 the road ; and when they were about to separate, one 
 of the last words of Carl was to remind him about 
 his promise. Herman laughed, but freely renewed 
 it. Was it a fancy of Carl, or did he hear the 
 laugh faintly repeated among the rocks behind 
 them, several seconds after his companion had dis 
 appeared. It might be an echo merely, but the 
 circumstance troubled the mind of Carl, who could 
 not avoid thinking of it for weeks after. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 " At length the dreams of the dreamer gave way 
 to more urgent realities. He became a married 
 man ; and his bosom was too much filled with the 
 thoughts of Matilda, and his eyes were too much 
 occupied with gazing upon her, to permit of the 
 intrusion of any busy ghost or wandering vision 
 upon either thought or sight. Marriage has a 
 
CARL WERNER. 33 
 
 wonderful tendency towards making men practical. 
 The tendency, indeed, is sometimes too direct and 
 rapid to be altogether pleasant. Not that this was 
 the case with Carl. Far from it. He was impro 
 ved in more respects than one in the change of his 
 condition. His mind needed some qualifying and 
 subduing influence to change its direction to turn 
 it from the too constant contemplation of those 
 baseless fabrics which had heretofore but too much 
 occupied its regards ; and to bring it back to hu 
 man necessities, and, through their medium, to the 
 just appreciation of merely human joys. It is no 
 less true than strange, that for the first three weeks 
 after marriage, Carl did not dream at all, as had 
 been, for as many years before, his nightly, and, 
 to speak truth, his daily custom. For three whole 
 weeks he lived a common man had earthly no 
 tions of things addressed himself to earthly la 
 bors and did not once, in all that time, pay a 
 single visit to the ancient abbey. But when the 
 three weeks were over, he began again to dream, 
 and to wander. The old abbey again received 
 him as a constant visitor, and the presence of Ma 
 tilda with him did not greatly lessen his devotion 
 to the sanctity and superstitions of the spot. 
 
 " Perhaps, indeed, it was Matilda that somewhat 
 contributed to the superstitions of her husband. 
 
34 CARL WERNER. 
 
 She was a religious being deeply impressed with 
 the spirit of faith and worship, even if she lacked 
 the divine intelligence which might have enabled 
 her to discriminate between the holy things of the 
 sanctuary, and those meretricious symbols, and 
 mocking shadows, which the arts of one class, and 
 the fears of another, have decreed for worship, and 
 declared no less holy than the true. The spiritu- 
 ette held a large place in her composition ; and if 
 her imagination lacked the activity of Carl's, her 
 yielding weakness rendered her susceptible to the 
 full influence of his. This weakness increased the 
 activity of a faculty to which it was constantly ap 
 pealing ; and though the terrible forms and fancies 
 to which the mind of Carl frequently gave birth 
 and performance, only drove the timorous wife 
 more earnestly to her prayerful devotions, she 
 did not seek to discourage him in a practice which 
 had so beneficial an effect. Unconsciously he 
 practised upon her fears, moving her to devout- 
 ness through an unseemly influence ; and with 
 equal unconsciousness on her part, her fears stimu 
 lated his superstitious tendencies even to error, by 
 giving continual employment to an imagination 
 which daily became more and more morbidly ac 
 tive, and consequently dangerous. 
 
CARL WERNER. 35 
 
 " Herman had now been gone for some months. 
 At first he wrote to them freely and frequently, 
 but after a while his letters grew fewer and less sa 
 tisfactory, and at length months went by without 
 bringing them any intelligence of their neglectful 
 brother. Matilda ^sometimes complained of this, 
 and thought unkindly of Herman ; but Carl, like 
 a true friend, always found some excuse for his ne- r 
 gleet, in the pressure of business, and the accumu 
 lation of other.^uties and friends. 
 
 " l Besides, he need not write, Matilda, when he 
 has nothing particular to say. No news is good 
 news commonly ; and when a letter comes, Matil 
 da, you know you always dread to open it, for 
 fear of hearing evil. Herman will not forget us, 
 be sure.' 
 
 " < But he may be sick, Carl.' 
 
 " That was always a suggestion which silenced 
 her husband, and he felt doubly unhappy on such 
 occasions, as, in addition to the fear with which 
 such a suggestion seemed to inspire Matilda, there 
 was an unpleasant consciouslbess in his own mind 
 which dreadfully troubled him. At such times, 
 strive as he might, he could not help thinking upon 
 the promise which Herman had given him, and he 
 felt that, however he might regret the death of 
 his brother-in-law, such an event would be lessened 
 
36 CARL WERNER. 
 
 of much of its evil, if that promise could be kept. 
 Such thoughts he felt were criminal, and to do 
 Carl all justice, we should add, that he strove man 
 fully to resist them. But he could not resist them, 
 and they grew upon him. After a little while, lie 
 thought of nothing else. He^did not need the 
 gently-uttered fears of Matilda, who continually 
 spoke of her absent brother, to remind him of his 
 promise and of his mortality ; and in his 
 dreams the image of that well known friend, 
 stretched out pale, and motionless, in the embrace 
 of death, came but too frequently to his mind, not 
 to lose, in time, many of its terrors. 
 
 IX. 
 
 "One pleasant afternoon, the two, Carl and Ma 
 tilda, rambled forth, according to their usual cus 
 tom, towards the ancient abbey. The sun was 
 just about setting, and he made a glorious descent. 
 His rays streamed ^through the broken walls by 
 which they walked, and they paused to contem 
 plate the picturesque effect of their scattered beams, 
 gliding among tombs, in which the dust that 
 once was life, and strength, and ambition, could 
 no longer feel their warmth. While they looked, 
 
CARL WERNER. 37 
 
 a cloud suddenly arose in the heavens, obscuring 
 and shutting out the bright glories which had won 
 their gaze, from the shattered walls which they had 
 made golden but a moment before. The sudden 
 clouding of the sky brought an instinctive gloom 
 to their mutual minds, and without seeming to 
 notice the absence of any connexion between the 
 phenomenon upon which they looked, and the ob 
 ject in her thoughts, Matilda quickly remarked : 
 
 " ? I hope, Carl, that nothing is the matter with 
 Herman.' 
 
 " Strange to say, the thought that something 
 was the matter with her brother, was even then 
 the busy thought in the mind of Carl. He replied 
 after a moment's pause 
 
 " Indeed, Matilda, I hope not.' 
 
 " A slight laugh rose from the ruins, and the 
 conscious soul of Carl was smitten within him. 
 
 " Had he been sincere in the utterance of that 
 hope ?' was the question which he asked himself 
 when he heard the laugh ; but it was a question 
 which he dared not answer. Matilda did not seem 
 to have heard the sound which had touched him 
 so deeply; and he was sufficiently collected to 
 conceal his agitation from her. But while they 
 spoke together, though but a few moments had 
 elapsed, the cloud had veered round, and now 
 
 VOL. i. 4 
 
38 CARL WERNER. 
 
 hung in the sky directly before them. Somehow, 
 this appearance affected Carl seriously. He 
 coupled the cloud with his own thoughts, and his 
 imagination grew busy in its contemplation. It 
 did not seem a common cloud to his eyes ; and 
 its progress, from a speck in the pathway of the 
 sun, to a mantle, in whose pitchy bosom the dying 
 but glorious orb was to find his splendors utterly 
 subdued, was a marvel to a mind so subtle as his. 
 His fancies grew firm and strengthened when he 
 saw that Matilda observed the wonder also. 
 
 " That is a strange looking cloud, Carl !' she 
 exclaimed ' see how it rolls over and over 
 onward and onward and yet there is no wind. 
 It is coming towards us.' 
 
 " The flight of the cloud seemed to have in 
 creased in velocity. It neared them rapidly, and 
 was evidently descending. When above them, it 
 seemed to open and to expand, and from its bosom 
 Carl felt the warm drops upon his face. 
 
 " ' It rains !' he said, * let us go into the abbey.' 
 
 " ' I feel none,' said Matilda. 
 
 " * Indeed ! it is full on my cheek !' 
 
 " The eyes of Matilda turned from the floating 
 mass that had now passed over them, but when 
 her glance met the face of her husband, she 
 screamed in terror. 
 
CARL WERNER. 39 
 
 " Father of heaven !' she exclaimed, ' be with 
 us ! Carl, my husband, your face is covered with 
 blood !' 
 
 " ' Say not so !' he cried, * what can it mean ?' 
 He wiped his face with his handkerchief, and the 
 stains were visible to his own eyes ; and when he 
 looked down upon his garments, they, too, 
 were covered with the same sanguinary color. 
 The wonder was greater still, when they looked in 
 vain to find a drop upon the person of Matilda. 
 Yet her arm had been fast locked within his, and 
 the very hand which had sustained her's was sprin 
 kled plentifully with the stains. 
 
 X. 
 
 " They hurried home in consternation. The 
 thought of Matilda was upon her brother ; and she 
 regarded the events of the evening as ominous 
 of his fate. But why did the blood stains fall only 
 upon her husband ? Why were her garments un 
 touched ? This was a mystery to her ; but not to 
 Carl. He thought he could explain it, but he for 
 bore to speak. He dared not. His thoughts 
 and feelings were not what they should have been. 
 He was guilty, in his secret soul, of improper feel- 
 
40 CARL WERNER. 
 
 ings, if not of improper wishes, and he knew it. 
 Supper was soon served, and, like a good wife, 
 regardful only of her husband, Matilda urged Carl 
 to eat, for she beheld his abstractedness. He ate 
 without knowing that he did so. She, however, 
 could eat nothing, and as soon as the repast was 
 over, she retired for the night. But Carl felt that 
 there was no sleep for him ; and a feverish mood, 
 for which he could not account, prompted him to 
 sally forth. He would have gone to his wife's 
 chamber he tried to do so for he knew what 
 were her apprehensions, and he wished to soothe 
 them but he could not. Something impelled 
 his footsteps abroad a spirit beyond his own 
 drove him forward ; and with a desperate mind 
 he rapidly hastened to the abbey, as if there, and 
 there only, he should find a solution of the mar 
 vel which had distressed him. His heart seemed 
 to grow strong in proportion as his thoughts grew 
 wilful ; and without any of those tremors which 
 had ever before possessed him when he rambled, 
 with a purely mental and not a personal feeling, 
 among the ruins, he boldly plunged into their re 
 cesses. 
 
 " The night was a clear, but not a bright one. 
 The stars were not numerous, but they were un 
 clouded. The air was still, and was only now 
 
CARL WERNER. 41 
 
 and then apparent in a slight breathing, as it came 
 through some little crevices in the wall. The si 
 lence of the place was complete was its solitude 
 complete also? Carl asked of himself the question, 
 as he walked beneath the massive archway of the 
 fabric still solid and strong, though broken and 
 impending ; for, the masons of old, wrought, not 
 less to make their works live than to live them 
 selves. They live, like all good workmen, in 
 their labors. The roof, broken in many places, 
 let in the scattered starlight, and sufficiently, 
 though imperfectly, revealed to him the place. 
 He went forward, full of sad and truant thoughts. 
 He took his seat upon one end of a dilapidated 
 stone which had often sustained him before. His 
 elbows rested upon his knees, and his hands sup 
 ported his head. It was in this posture that he 
 mused with feelings which sometimes brought him 
 back to impulses and a course of reflection not 
 unworthy of his better nature. They reproached 
 him with the heartlessness of his curiosity, as if it 
 were not the tendency of mind always great mind, 
 which overlooks the time, and lives for God, and 
 for the species to disregard nice affections, and 
 the tender blossoms which decay. 
 
 " ' Herman, Herman!' he exclaimed, 'I have 
 been unworthy of thee. Thou hast loved me 
 with the love of a brother, while I have thought 
 4* 
 
42 CARL WERNER. 
 
 of thee even as the ancient augur of the victim, 
 which he slaughtered for unholy wisdom ! T have 
 prayed in my secret soul I have prayed for thy 
 death that I might have improper knowledge.' 
 
 " Again did a slight laugh come to his ears. 
 He looked up with a shudder. A small blue light 
 crawled along upon the opposite wall, like some 
 slimy reptile, and while Carl watched its pro 
 gress with solemn interest, the laugh was repeated 
 almost beside him. He started, and almost at the 
 same moment he felt one side of him grow chill. 
 A breath of ice seemed to penetrate him from the 
 east. He turned his eyes in that quarter, and the 
 spectacle that then met his gaze paralyzed every 
 faculty of his body. The form of Herman Ott- 
 fried wsfs there, sitting beside him on the other 
 end of the grave stone. He could not speak 
 he could not move. His eyes were riveted upon 
 the spectre, and the glare which was sent back 
 from those of the unearthly visitant, was that of 
 hell. A scornful leer was in it a giggling hate 
 a venomous but laughing malice. 
 
 " 'Her Her Herman!' Carl tried to speak, 
 but a monosyllable was all that he could utter. 
 
 " Ha, ha, ha !' The vaulted abbey rang 
 with the echoes of that infernal laugh. 
 
 *' * Mercy ! mercy !' screamed the unhappy 
 Carl, as he lifted his hands and strove to close his 
 
CARL WERNER. 43 
 
 eyes against the dreadful presence. But the 
 elbows refused to bend he could not raise them. 
 His knees in the mean time gave way, and he 
 sank senselessly upon the damp ground of the 
 abbey. 
 
 XL 
 
 "When he unclosed his eyes, which he did 
 in the fullest consciousness of his situation, and 
 consequently in the extremes! terror, he was re 
 joiced to find himself alone. The grave stone, at 
 the foot of which he lay, was untenanted. The 
 abbey was silent, and though he dreaded, at every 
 step which he took while making his way out, to 
 hear the dreadful laugh, and to behold the hellish 
 visage, he yet suffered no farther interruption 
 while in the abbey. When he had left it, however, 
 and was about to enter the main street of the vil 
 lage, he was encountered by a drunken man. 
 
 " ' Hallo, friend !' exclaimed the bacchanal, 
 whither so fast? Stop and hear a song stop 
 and be merry.' 
 
 " And, in the voice of one satisfied with him 
 self and all the world, the drinker carolled with 
 tolerable skill, one of those famous dithyrambics 
 in which the German muse has frequently excel- 
 
44 CAUL WERNER. 
 
 led. The eye of the unhappy Carl was turned, half 
 in hope, and half in despair, upon the man. He 
 had heard of the soporific effects of wine of its 
 ability to drown care, and produce a sweet for- 
 getfulness of his sorrow, and he felt inclined to the 
 temptation ; but a sudden thought of Matilda shot 
 through his brain, at that lucky instant, like an 
 arrow. He knew not the lateness of the hour, and 
 was ignorant how long he had been from her. 
 He knew that he had swooned away, and knew 
 not how long he had remained in his stupor. It 
 might be near daylight, and what, if such were 
 the case, what must be her fears? Domestic 
 love came to his succor, and he rejected the over 
 tures of the bacchanalian, who nevertheless con 
 tinued to pursue him. He followed the unhappy 
 Carl to his very door, now persurding, and now 
 striving to provoke him by every manner of taunt 
 and sarcasm, to partake of the intoxicating cup 
 which he proffered. But the sufferer was firm, 
 though more than once it came to his thought that 
 wine was good against sorrow. He was not yet 
 so deficient, however, in other resources, as to fly 
 to this doubtful succedaneum, 
 
CARL WERNER. 45 
 
 XII. 
 
 " It was not so late as Carl had fancied it, and 
 his wife was still awake. He had not been away 
 much longer than was his wont, when he went 
 forth on his usual evening rambles ; and though 
 she had suffered from his absence, yet it was not 
 through any apprehensions for his safety. Still 
 she had no complaints, and the pleasure in her 
 eyes when he did return, was, probably, one of the 
 best arguments against his wandering forth again. 
 She was still melancholy and apprehensive, and 
 when she observed the anguish, not to say the 
 agony, which was apparent in every feature of his 
 face, her apprehensions underwent a correspond 
 ing increase. 
 
 " ' What is the matter, Carl ? What has trou 
 bled you ?' she demanded of him in agitated ac 
 cents. 
 
 " Nothing, nothing !' with an effort, he made 
 out to reply. 
 
 " * It is something something terrible, dear 
 est husband your cheeks are haggard, your 
 eyes are wild you tremble all over. Tell me, 
 tell me, my husband, what is it that troubles you.' 
 
46 CARL WERNER. 
 
 " c Nothing,' he again replied ' return to your 
 bed,' (she had risen when she beheld his face,) 
 * return to your bed and heed me not. I will be 
 better soon.' 
 
 "He quieted, if he did not satisfy her. She 
 returned to the coucli as he bade her ; and he 
 prepared to follow her. But there was one duty 
 which he omitted that night, which, from his child 
 hood, he had never neglected to perform before. 
 He did not pray. He strove to do so, but his 
 mind could not be brought to address itself in sup 
 plication. He forgot the words ; and others, fo 
 reign to his object, took their places. He gave up 
 the effort in despair. He could think of nothing 
 but the terrible laugh, and the demoniac visage 
 which had met him in the abbey. All the next 
 day he was like one whose senses wandered. His 
 wife strove to soothe his mood, which was fitful 
 and to attract his attention, which strayed continu 
 ally ; but he smiled upon her kindly, with a sickly 
 smile, and gave no farther acknowledgment. As 
 night approached he grew visibly agitated, and as 
 he became conscious that his efforts at conceal 
 ment were unavailing, he sought his chamber, to 
 hide in its dimness what he might not otherwise 
 conceal. But his agony seemed to increase with his 
 solitude. Dreadful images were about him in his 
 
CARL WERNER. 47 
 
 chamber, and a chuckle, like that he had heard in 
 the abbey, was uttered, at intervals, even over his 
 shoulder. He descended to the apartment in 
 which he had left Matilda, preferring that she 
 should see the agony that he could not endure 
 alone. But her presence gave him no consola 
 tion, and her solicitude became an annoyance. 
 
 " * Trouble me no more !' he exclaimed, in tones 
 which she had never heard from his lips before, 
 replying to one of her fond appeals to know the 
 cause of his sufferings. ' Trouble me no more 
 it is nothing nothing which I may tell you.' 
 
 " She turned from him in sorrow not less deep, 
 though less acute than his, and the tears filled 
 her eyes. His heart reproached him as he beheld 
 her action, and readily conceived her pain ; but 
 there was a wilful impulse in his bosom, which re 
 fused to permit of his making the usual atone 
 ment. Sullen and sad, he glowered about the 
 apartment 'till night came on, and supper was an 
 nounced, when Matilda saw that his agitation was 
 visibly increasing. With the meek and blessing 
 spirit of an angel, forgetting the harsh rebuff 
 which he had given her, she approached him 
 threw her fond arms about his neck, and implored 
 him to smile again upon her. He tried to do so 
 but the effort produced only a ghastly grin, no 
 
48 CARL WERNER. 
 
 less shocking to her eyes than the effort had been 
 irksome to his mind. He went to the supper ta 
 ble, and, unobserved by him, her glance watched 
 him while he strove to eat. He left the table in 
 horror, for the face of Herman stared at him from 
 the plate. There was no hope of escape from the 
 pursuing fiend, and the unhappy Carl rushed out 
 of the house. Where should he go ? 
 
 " * To the abbey ! to the abbey ! I will speak 
 I will demand its meaning. I will know and 
 hear all. If it be Herman, in truth my brother 
 and my friend ' 
 
 'Ha! ha! ha!' 
 
 " The infernal laugh was at his elbow. He 
 turned in desperation to behold not the gor- 
 gon stare which had so terrified him in the abbey, 
 but a face rather good natured than otherwise 
 the face of the bacchanalian who had encountered 
 him on the preceding night. A mischievous grin 
 was upon the features of the stranger, whose broad 
 mouth and little twinkling eyes, with the fat, hang 
 ing cheek, and the red and pimpled nose, seemed 
 the very personification of fun and frolic. Not a fea 
 ture in his face appeared of demoniac origin. The 
 subtle malignity of the satanic attributes were en 
 tirely wanting, and in place of them, reckless mirth, 
 indifferent to all matters but good cheer, was the 
 
CARL WERNER. 49 
 
 prevailing expression. But the laugh ! That, 
 certainly, had been very like the laugh he had 
 heard in the abbey. No two sounds could have 
 seemed more alike to the ears of Carl. A new 
 thought entered his mind with this conviction. 
 This drunken fellow might have been the propri 
 etor of the former laugh, as he certainly was of 
 that which he had just heard. To him might be 
 ascribed the design to frighten himself and Her 
 man. When he looked into the cunning, merry, 
 blubber-face of the reveller, conjecture became 
 conviction. It must be so !' said Carl, half aloud. 
 
 " ' To be sure it must,' exclaimed the other. 
 * We will have a glass together now, though you 
 did refuse to be a good fellow last night. Come. 
 Here's old Dietrich hard by. I can answer for 
 his liquors, though I cannot for his conscience. I 
 believe in the one, and damn the other. Come, 
 my friend, let's try him.' 
 
 " Carl was half disposed to be civil with the 
 stranger. The notion which had suddenly pos 
 sessed him that he and the ghost of the abbey were 
 one and the same person, brought a singular relief 
 to his mind ; and he was half persuaded to forgive 
 him the impertinence of the fright which he had 
 received, in consideration of the solution of the 
 mystery which the conjecture brought. The 
 
 VOL. i. 5 
 
50 CARL WERNER. 
 
 stranger pressed him, expatiating- upon the sweets 
 of wine, and the luxury of good company. 
 
 " Wine,' says he 'wine, CarJ ' 
 
 " * How the devil does he know my name !' 
 thought Carl to himself, but he did not say it. 
 
 " * Damn my instinct,' said the other * I find 
 it the hardest thing in the world not to know, 
 what, indeed, it is not necessary that I should 
 know.' 
 
 " * What do you mean ?' said Carl. 
 
 " * Oh, nothing I was only regretting that 
 my passion for wine I had almost thought it an 
 instinct should sometimes make me "indifferent 
 to the sort of company I fall in with. Here, I've 
 been on the eve of eulogizing the rich Hochhei- 
 mer to you, who are a judge, doubtless, of the 
 noble beverage, simply because, in my intercourse 
 with mankind, I meet hourly with so many to 
 whom the eulogy is a sort of key to their tastes, 
 that it is now almost habitual with me to dwell 
 upon it. To you, however, any idle talk upon 
 the merits and effects of good wine would be only 
 an impertinence.' 
 
 " ' 1 am no judge I drink little,' said Carl, 
 to whom the seduction of appearing more than he 
 was, or of knowing more than he did, had always 
 been a very small one. 
 
CARL WERNER 51 
 
 " ' You belie yourself,' said the stranger *I 
 know that you are a judge I see it in your face. 
 Come with me you shall give me your opinion 
 of the wine of Dietrich.' 
 
 " * Nay, you must excuse me,' said Carl. 
 
 " ' Can't never excuse a man from his wine, 1 
 said the other, bluntly. * Excuse a milk-sop, of 
 course but never a man.' And as he finished 
 a sarcasm which has led thousands of goodly young 
 men to their ruin, he familiarly took the arm of 
 Carl to lead him forward to the tavern. But Carl 
 was not vain of being esteemed manly in this re 
 spect. His philosophy was that of an English 
 poet, whom he never read : 
 
 ' \Vho drinks more wine than others can, 
 I count a hogshead, not a man ' 
 
 and he gently, but firmly refused. 
 
 " * Why, man,' said the other, <Am I then 
 mistaken in you. I thought you a good fellow, 
 who loved good company, good wine, and a good 
 story ' 
 
 " 'Good story!' exclaimed Carl, touched in 
 the right place. 
 
 " * Ay, a good story a tale of the mountains 
 
 of the miners, and the red demons of the mines 
 
 the gnomes and the salamanders.' 
 
52 CARL WERNER. 
 
 " * Have you, indeed, such stories ?' inquired 
 Carl, now rather curious. 
 
 " ' Ay, that have I, and, nearer home, of the 
 old abbey here. I can tell you a ghost story of 
 those ruins, that '11 make every hair of your head 
 stand on end.' 
 
 '* Carl hesitated and lingered, and his compa 
 nion laughed at his hesitation. That laugh chilled 
 him it reminded him of what he had been willing 
 to forget. It reminded him of the face of Her 
 man the ghastly grin upon his lips, and the 
 dreadful laugh so like to that of the stranger, 
 which he had then heard. He broke away from 
 the arm which held him. 
 
 " ' Not now,' said he, * you must excuse me. 
 I have business to attend to.' And with these 
 words, amid the curses and the derision of his com 
 panion, he hurried forward to the abbey. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 " A spell, whose power seemed to be irresistible, 
 prompted him in the direction which he took. A 
 will, superior to his own, yet compassing and con 
 trolling it entirely, drove him onward to the ab 
 bey. What proper motive had he there ? None. 
 
CARL WERNER. 53 
 
 His duties were all elsewhere with his wife 
 in his own home. What could he gain to see 
 once more the dreadful spectre which had affright 
 ed him ? An unholy curiosity stimulated the an 
 swer to this question. Knowledge Knowledge. 
 To know that which is forbidden to win the se 
 crets of two worlds was the hope of Carl, as it 
 has been the unwise hope of thousands. He did 
 not remember, while he indulged this vain desire, 
 that the * tree of knowledge, is not that of life ;' 
 still less can it be said to be that of happiness. 
 Thought is not often happiness; and where thought 
 takes the wings of the imagination, and strives 
 ever after the ideal, it is too apt to be torture and 
 strife, as it must finally be death. Death, indeed 
 death and time are the grand illuminators. To 
 wait is to be wise. Alas! for Carl he had not 
 only to wait but to endure. 
 
 " ' I must pluck up courage !' he mentally ex 
 claimed. * I demanded to see him ; I must not 
 shrink from the encounter. Let him speak to me 
 let him say he is happy and I will ask no more.* 
 
 " What right had he to ask so much f Were 
 it his right, would it not be revealed ? Would the 
 just God withhold from him a right? He did not 
 ask himself these questions, for Carl, like all of 
 his species, was but too apt to contemplate, through 
 5* 
 
54 CARL WERNER. 
 
 the medium of a shallow vanity, the deity in his 
 own heart, as if the dwelling-place of fears and 
 feebleness, of vain caprices and false-founded pas 
 sions, could ever be the home of divinity. 
 
 "He entered the abbey walls he trod among 
 the crumbling ruins, but his heart shook within 
 him. Again he sat upon the tomb-stone again 
 did the sudden and sinuous light crawl before him 
 upon the walls. He felt the chill enter and curdle 
 the blood within his bosom, and he knew that the 
 spectre was sitting at his side. He dared not look 
 round upon him. He almost sank upon the 
 ground; but the resolve of his mind sustained him, 
 and he tried to compose himself. 
 
 " * Why should I fear ?' he said in his thoughts. 
 'If it be Herman, he will not harm me if it be 
 not Herman, what other has claim upon me !' 
 
 "As if the spectre had seen his heart, and in 
 this manner commented upon its fears and weak 
 ness, the dreadful laugh which had so shocked him 
 before, was again repeated. The blood ran cold 
 in the bosom of the mortal, but his firmness had 
 not departed. The resolve was still in his mind, 
 and after a brief pause, in. which he struggled suc 
 cessfully with his terrors, he turned his eye boldly 
 to behold the spectre. The same dreadful presence 
 met his glance as on the preceding night. But the 
 
CARL WERNER. 55 
 
 novelty had passed away, and with it some of the 
 terrors. He felt that he could now survey it, dis 
 tinctly, resolutely, if not calmly. He did survey 
 it and what a spectacle ! The face was that of 
 his friend, that of Herman Ottfried, indeed ; but, 
 oh ! how different. It was the face of his brother 
 and his friend, but in place of the gentleness and 
 good nature that made its prevailing expression 
 heretofore, the features were all hell-stamped the 
 skin was all hell-dyed and darkened. Carl nearly 
 fainted his heart seemed to wither within him as 
 he gazed. But he continued to gaze. His resolve, 
 built upon high, but erring, moral purpose was 
 not now to be shaken. Nor, indeed, could he do 
 otherwise than gaze. The eyes of the spectre, 
 like those of the fabled basilisk, rivetted his own. 
 The glare which shot from them, like a yellow va 
 por, seemed to exercise upon him the power of a 
 spell. He gazed till he was infatuated; yet he 
 writhed all the while beneath the scornful maligni 
 ty of the spectre's glance. 
 
 " ' What would you with me ?' he screamed, 
 rat'lier than spoke. He could easier scream than 
 speak ; and the words were scarcely intelligible to 
 his own ears. He was once more answered by 
 that infernal laugh. He shivered as he heard it, 
 but it did not increase his terrors. It rather made 
 him indignant. 
 
56 CARL WERNER. 
 
 " * Who are you ?' he cried, in tones more tem 
 perate, and with a spirit even more resolved than 
 before. ' Who are you ? what are you ? I 
 know you not/ 
 
 " 'Herman thy friend he for whose death 
 thou pray Met, that thou might 'st possess his 
 secret. Would'st thou not hear it ?' 
 
 " Such was the terrifying response of the spec 
 tre whom he had summoned. 
 
 " Thou liest !' cried Carl, boldly. I uttered 
 no such prayer.' 
 
 " ' Thou did'st,' was the prompt reply, ' in thy 
 heart thou did'st, and thy prayer is granted. 
 Herman Ottfried is no more he is beside thee/ 
 
 " 'I believe thee not!' was the courageous re 
 ply. ' My friend still lives ; and if he did not, I 
 would not believe that such as thou seemest, and 
 art, should be his representative. He is good, and 
 thou ' 
 
 " * Art damned ! thou would'st say !' and the 
 spectre concluded his sentence 'And thou say'st 
 truly, Carl Werner. I am as thou say'st. Yet, 
 look once more upon these features, and, blasted 
 and blackened as they appear to thee, say if they 
 are not those of him who was thy friend of him 
 who was Herman Ottfried. 7 
 
 " 'I believe thee not!' cried Carl, trembling 
 all over. 
 
CARL WERNER. 57 
 
 " * Thou shall thou dost believe me, Carl 
 Werner,' replied the spectre. ' Thou know'st 
 that I am he. Did I not pledge myself to meet 
 thee to tell thee all to give thee intelligence 
 to ease thy curiosity ? I am come. I am ready. 
 Art thou willing art thou prepared to hear?' 
 
 " ' Not from thee not from thee !' cried Carl, 
 in agony. * Away ! leave me trouble me not 
 with thy falsehoods. My friend is living Her 
 man Ottfried, I know, still lives ; and if he did not, 
 thou never couldst have been the spirit which filled 
 his frame, and gave impulse to his actions. He 
 had no malice such as glares from thine eyes he 
 had no foul passions such as hang about thy lips.' 
 
 " Thou reasonest like a child, Carl Werner. 
 Hear me and believe. The first truth is death 
 the second judgment. Mortality is a state of 
 dreams and shows presentments which impose 
 only on mortal senses. We throw oft' all disguises 
 for the first time, when we arrive at the first truth, 
 which we never know until death. We acquire 
 all truth when we reach the higher form of judg 
 ment. In death, we know for the first time what 
 we are and have been in judgment, we know 
 what we shall be.' 
 
 " ' Then thou canst tell me nothing,' said Carl, 
 fearlessly yet trembling all the while. 
 
58 CARL WERNER. 
 
 " * Yes I can tell thee what I am !' exclaimed 
 the spectre in reply ; but it needed no words to 
 unfold that which was but too clearly discernible in 
 the blasted and blasting expression of his counte 
 nance as he thus replied. Carl saw this ex 
 pression, and the shudder that shook his frame 
 sufficiently apprized the spectre that it was unne 
 cessary for him to relate that which the quick ima 
 gination of Carl so readily conceived. He grin 
 ned fearfully as he witnessed the tremblings of his 
 mortal companion, and the malicious and hateful 
 expression re-aroused the courage of the youth. 
 
 " ' Yet, though I cannot but see that thou art 
 one of the damned and blasted of heaven one of 
 the thrice blasted perchance .' 
 
 " * Thou art right !' exclaimed the spectre, while 
 lurid fires of a hellish agony seemed to kindle in, 
 and to dart forth from his eye * thou art right ; I 
 am indeed, one of the thrice ay, one of the sev 
 enty times seventy times damned of the Eternal ; 
 and I defy him amid all his fires.' 
 
 " He paused as he spoke these words, and his 
 clenched hands were lifted in air, and thrust up 
 wards, as if he would do battle even at that mo 
 ment with the deity. Carl shuddered and shrunk 
 from the fearful presence ; but his soul grew 
 
CARL WERNER. 59 
 
 strengthened within him in due proportion to the 
 revoltings which he felt at such foul blasphemy. 
 
 " I believe thee !' he exclaimed, and his own 
 clasped hands were raised in prayer while he con 
 tinued ; I believe thee; but I believe not that 
 thou art Herman Ottfried it is impossible I 
 believe not that he is dead.' 
 
 " * Thou shalt have confirmation to-morrow. 
 His blood was upon thee yesterday his shadow 
 is before thee now. Dost ihon no* believe mo 
 wilt not thon hem some of the secrets which thou 
 didat once so desire to know. Where is thy curi 
 osity where is thy thirst, Carl, after knowledge ? 
 Has thy marriage changed thy nature, and art 
 thou willing to be the mere cur of the household, 
 and forego that noble ambition which made thee 
 seek after wisdom, as if it were life as if it 
 were more than life to thee as if it were happi 
 ness ? Is it happiness to thee no longer ? Is thy 
 sense dulled for its enjoyment ? Go to, Carl, I 
 had not thought this of thee. Go to thy wife 
 get from her the needle and the net-work, and find 
 in her example thy fitting employment. Thou 
 hast not the soul for my secret -j/fhou wouldst fear 
 to hear it.' 
 
 " 'Fiend foul fiend, and bitter devil!' cried 
 the fierce Carl, provoked by the taunting of the 
 
60 CARL WERNER. 
 
 spectre beside him - * I fear tK5e not, though 1 
 would not have thy secret. I hold thce to be a 
 cheat, and thou but slanderest the noble spirit of 
 my friend. Have at thy throat, monster, in the 
 name of heaven and its blessed ministers. Have 
 at thy throat ! and let the great God of the hea 
 vens and the earth determine between us.' 
 
 " * Ha, ha, ha !' was the only response of the 
 spectre as Carl uttered these words. The repli 
 cation of the cvvunhling walls to the infernal laugh 
 was tremendous 5 but it did noi shake the despe 
 rate courage of Carl Werner. He sprang upon 
 his glowering and grinning enemy, with out 
 stretched arms and fingers, and he aimed to clutch 
 the fearful image- not a whit alarmed at the in 
 creasing fiendishness of its aspect by the throat; 
 but the object melted in his embrace, at the mo 
 ment when it seemed most secure. His arms 
 grasped his own body ; and, stunned with con 
 fused thoughts and defeated passion, the unhappy 
 Carl gazed around him in a stupor, which was 
 not at all diminished as he found himself alone. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 " To a certain extent, this stupor brought with it 
 a desirable insensibility. He trembled no longer. 
 
CARL WERNER. 61 
 
 He was almost reckless. A reaction in his mind 
 had taken place, and from having been one whom 
 every thing before, however slight, could startle, 
 he was now one whom nothing could affect or 
 move. He rushed through the abbey. He thrust 
 his fearless head into all its recesses into tombs 
 and niches, cells, and ruinous and long untrodden 
 apartments, with most admirable indiscretion. He 
 summoned his tormentor from the places in which 
 he had hidden himself, and defied the presence 
 which he invoked. But all was silent ; and, ex 
 hausted with fatigue, and chafed with his disap 
 pointment, Carl at length departed from the abbey 
 in hopeless despondency. The next day, even as 
 the spectre had predicted, he received the fatal in 
 telligence of the death of Herman. This news 
 was but too confirmatory of what he had seen and 
 felt. It gave life and body to his fears. The 
 grief of Matilda was great, but it would be vain 
 to undertake to describe that of her husband. To 
 her, his agony dearly, as she well knew, he loved 
 her brother seemed strange and unaccountable. 
 She little dreamed of the nightly revelations which 
 were made to his senses. With a praiseworthy 
 sense of propriety and a manly tenderness, he had 
 carefully withheld from her, though still longing 
 i. 6 
 
62 CARL WERNER. 
 
 to reveal, the fearful secret which he possessed. 
 But how could he say to her that he had seen her 
 brother, or seen him as he was a thing upon 
 whom the curse of God had fallen, and who had 
 been delivered over by his judgment to the awful 
 ministers of eternal wrath. He felt that he must 
 keep his secret, and bear with iis horrible burden 
 as best he might. But, as evening drew nigh, the 
 horrors of his heart grew less and less supporta 
 ble. He felt that he must again perform his vigil. 
 He must again repair to the place of his trial and 
 bis torture ; and this, by a secret conviction of his 
 mind, he felt must be done, until he had courage 
 to hear, and was willing to believe, all th orrible 
 intelligence which the spectre m ght think proper 
 to convey. He had bound himself solemnly to 
 the meeting, and he could not shrink from the 
 terms of his pie ge. Yet, where and when was it 
 to end ? This was the dreadful question which his 
 soul answered in utter hopeles ness. 
 
 " * In my death. Yet it will end soon, for I 
 cannot stand this strife much longer.' 
 
 " Such were his thoughts and words ; and their 
 truth would readily be believed by those who w r ere 
 conscious of the sudden and singular change which 
 had taken place in his person. All the villagers 
 remarked it. He was haggard and listless-^- he 
 
CARL WERNER. 63 
 
 saw and heeded nobody he moved through the 
 streets like a ghost, and Matilda the beloved 
 wife of his affections no longer filled his heart, 
 and commanded the devotion of his eye. She 
 strove to find out the secret of his sorrows, and to 
 soothe them. But vainly would the physician seek 
 to heal, while he remains ignorant of the cause of 
 the distemper. We must lay bare the wound to 
 extract the poison; and in the purity of her soul 
 she did not even imagine the horrible nature of 
 that secret which was preying upon his. Her ef 
 forts were in vain. Night came on, and though 
 she strove to keep him at home, the spell was too 
 powerful to permit her to succeed. 
 
 " < Where is it you go, dearest Carl ? Why, 
 night after night, will you go forth in so much sor 
 row, and with features so wild, so full of apprehen 
 sion ; and when you return so full of horror 
 so haggard so dreadful ? Tell me, dear hus 
 band, whither it is you go, and why it is you suf 
 fer in this manner.' 
 
 " ' Nay, do not heed me, dearest,' said the un 
 happy man, with a gentleness of manner which 
 made his sorrows only the more touching *do not 
 trouble yourself about me. I have busy and vex 
 ing thoughts, and shall not look well until they are 
 
64 CARL WERNER. 
 
 digested into form. When I resolve them, then 
 will I remain with you, and be at peace.' 
 
 " 'What thoughts are they?' she demanded; 
 but he smiled, and answered her evasively. 
 
 " * Ask me not not now,' he replied, and re 
 sisting her solicitations to be allowed to go forth 
 with him, he rushed out of the house. She fol 
 lowed him to the door, and looked after him in the 
 street ; and her own apprehensions were greatly 
 increased as she beheld the erratic impulse of his 
 movement, and the feebleness of his step the one 
 betokening the disorder of his mind, the other the 
 debility of his body. While she looked and trem 
 bled, with the big tear gathering slowly in her eye 
 and stealing silently to her cheek, the accents of a 
 mild but strange voice met her ears at a small dis 
 tance, and, turning, she beheld an old man stand 
 ing before her. He was a stranger to her, and 
 evidently a stranger in the place, since his air and 
 costume were very different from any that she had 
 ever before seen. His beard was long and white 
 like silver, and hung down neatly smooth and 
 clean upon his bosom ; his hair, equally long,, and 
 not less white, streamed with similar smoothness 
 down his back and shoulders. It was evident that 
 he was a person of very great age, yet his skin 
 was clear, of a pure white and red, and unmarked 
 
CARL WERNER. 65 
 
 by a single wrinkle. His mouth was small, and 
 wore a sweet expression, and his eyes were full of 
 benevolence. He carried a little staff, and a bundle 
 which probably contained a single change of rai 
 ment it certainly could hot have held more ; and 
 he seemed like some venerable traveller, who had 
 an unconquerable desire for travel, and had learned 
 to narrow his wants to the smallest possible limits, 
 consistent with the superior claims of an intellec 
 tual nature. 
 
 " l Daughter,' he said, Peace be with you. 
 Can you give me shelter and food for the night ? 
 I am a stranger, and would abide with you.' 
 
 " The heart of Matilda, like that of Carl, was 
 open as day, and the stranger most probably had 
 seen in her countenance that he would not be re 
 fused ; for, even as he spoke, he prepared to enter. 
 He was not deceived in the person he addressed. 
 With a sweet voice, full of respect for his vener 
 able white hairs had impressed Matilda with a 
 proper and gentle awe she bade him welcome, 
 and having closed the door after giving a long 
 lingering look to the form of her husband, who 
 was rapidly passing from her sight she led the 
 way for her aged guest, into an inner apartment. 
 There she spread before him the simple repast 
 
 from which the unhappy Carl had fled. The old 
 6* 
 
66 CARL WERNER. 
 
 man blessed the bread ere he broke It, and blessed 
 the giver. He then ate heartily, and at intervals 
 conversed with Matilda, who sat with him at the 
 table, though she ate nothing. Her heart was too 
 full of doubt and sorrow to suffer her to eat, and 
 while her guest spoke, the tears gathered unbid 
 den, and without her consciousness, to her eyes. He 
 saw them. 
 
 " ' Daughter, you weep you are unhappy. 
 Why is it what is your sorrow.' 
 
 " * Alas ! father, are we not born to sorrows. 
 Is there one who escapes ?' 
 
 "'True, my child sorrow is human, and to 
 grieve is the attribute *of man, and perhaps his 
 blessing. They are blest who can weep. God 
 loveth those whom he chasteneth ; for it is through 
 trial only that we gain virtue, and through virtue 
 only that we gain heaven. The untried are the 
 unblessed, for then is the work harder for them, 
 and the prospect of virtue more remote. Such, 
 my daughter, is not your case. The fire even 
 now is purifying you, and if you grieve, you do not 
 murmur. Sorrow, like a goodly medicine that is 
 to work for our healing, must be submitted to 
 without murmuring. Whence come your sorrows, 
 my daughter let me know them. I hare travel 
 led much among men, and I know many of the 
 
CARL WERNER. 67 
 
 arts of healing. I have some skill which I may 
 boast, in curing those hurts of the mind which 
 come from our indiscretions, and are to be healed 
 by our humility. Let me know what grieves you, 
 and hear to my counsel." 
 
 " ' I grieve not for myself, my father, so much 
 as for one that I love my husband.' 
 
 " 'You are married then ?' 
 
 " ' I am, and to one of the best of men ; but he 
 is thoughtful even to sadness, and I fear that his 
 thoughts are sometimes too vexing for his mind, 
 which they very much disorder. Something 
 troubles him very greatly even now, and before 
 you came he went forth !n deep anxiety, which it 
 was painful to me to behold. He will be away 
 until near midnight, or even after ; and when he 
 returns, it will seem that some dreadful strife hath 
 shaken him his face will be pale as if with sud 
 den fright his eyes wild, staring, almost starting 
 from their sockets, and his whole appearance that 
 of a man almost distraught.' 
 
 " ' And how long hath he been troubled in this 
 wise, my daughter?' demanded the aged stranger. 
 
 " ' But a few days,' Matilda readily replied ; for 
 there was something so encouraging in the appear 
 ance of the old man, that, although a woman 
 rather disposed to reserve in her manners, she felt 
 
68 CARL WERNER. 
 
 that she could have freely told him every secret 
 of her bosom. 
 
 "'But a few days and before this time, he 
 hath shown none of these habits ?' 
 
 " ' None, father none of this wildness and af 
 fliction. He hath been thoughtful ever, and fond 
 of sad thoughts, but he hath never been wild 
 and stern as he is now, and never did he go abroad 
 in this fashion after the night,' 
 
 " ' You tell me of one,' said the stranger, after a 
 brief pause given to thought 'You tell me of 
 one who hath done a sudden wrong, and whom a 
 just conscience is smiting sorely ; or, one, per 
 chance, who is fond of*his error, or, from a false 
 and unseemly pride, who persisteth in it.' 
 
 "'Oh, no, father I cannot think it. Carl 
 would never wrong human being. He is the most 
 just and honorable of our village that every 
 body says of him.' 
 
 " ' That may be, my daughter, but is there no 
 wronging of God and of one's self which is also 
 a wronging of God, as it perverts the service of the 
 creature from the place and power to which it is 
 due. Can you tell me that Carl Werner has not 
 done this.' 
 
 " Matilda tried to think, before she answered, 
 whether she had mentioned her husband's name. 
 
CARL WERNER. 69 
 
 She did not recollect having done so, and yet the 
 old man had pronounced it. Before she could re 
 solve this thought or reply, the stranger continued : 
 
 " * It is always a bad sign to see one, on a sud 
 den, depart from a good habit, my daughter. You 
 say that your husband seldom or never went forth 
 at night, but always preferred to remain at home, 
 until now.' 
 
 "'Yes, father, but it is with evident reluc 
 tance that he now leaves me. It is like tearing 
 himself away that he rushes out of the house, soon 
 after nightfall, and goes off I know not where.' 
 
 " ' To return miserable,' said the old man. ' To 
 bring him back to an old habit, my daughter, is 
 probably to give him the peace of mind which you 
 say he seems to lack. Have you striven to keep 
 him at home, my daughter, since you have seen 
 the evil of this habit ?' 
 
 " ' I have, my father, but without success,' was 
 the reply. 
 
 " You must do it,' said the old man with vehe 
 mence ' you must do it. A good wife, who 
 loves her husband, and is beloved by him, has a 
 thousand sweet arts of persuasion which will not 
 fail to procure from him her wishes. Your hus 
 band loves you.' 
 
 " Of a truth, I think it.' 
 
70 CARL WERNER. 
 
 " * Then, my daughter, if you love him, you 
 shall not fail to persuade him, if you seek to do it. 
 You must keep him at home. He must not go 
 abroad. These nightly wanderings make his in 
 firmity. They prove that he is subject to some 
 evil influence, which thus exacts his obedience, 
 and imposes upon him this form of service. You, 
 and you alone, can save him ; for, as the evil influ 
 ence strives through the powers of hate, it can 
 only be safely contended with by the powers of 
 love. This is the war which is ever going on be 
 tween the two great principles by which the world 
 is divided. You must prove that the principle of 
 love in your bosom is stronger than that of hate in 
 the enemy of your husband. Can you prove this, 
 my daughter; for, unless you can, Carl Werner is 
 lost to you forever, as he certainly will soon be lost 
 to himself. 7 
 
 " ' I can I will !' cried the devoted wife, with 
 terror and love both equally mingled in her coun 
 tenance ; for the words of the venerable old man 
 had deeply impressed her, and a something in his 
 air and manner assured her that he was worthy of 
 all confidence. 
 
 "'I can I will, my father only tell me 
 what I shall do how work what say.' 
 
 " ' Love needs no counsellor, my daughter, for 
 
CARL WERNER. 71 
 
 it is God's nature, and is by instinct wise. True 
 love, I speak of; and not the idle fancies which 
 the profligate and vain have misnamed love. If 
 you lo e Carl Werner with a true wife's love, you 
 will seek that he should be always with you you 
 will seek to make him happy. These are your 
 present tasks. You must begin by keeping him 
 from this wandering habit. He must not go forth 
 again at night for he flies from the principle of 
 love, to pay homage to the principle of hate. 
 Withdraw him from that foul worship, and he is 
 safe, and you are both happy.' 
 
 " It would be needless to dwell upon, or to de 
 tail, the farther dialogue which then took place 
 between the young wife and her venerable guest. 
 It is sufficient to say that the longer she listened to 
 to his counsel, the more she became impressed with 
 its force, and with the necessity for its adoption. 
 While she heard him she had no wish for sleep, 
 and hours seemed to pass away like minutes until 
 the clock struck the midnight hour, and she then 
 grew more than ever alarmed at the aBsence of 
 her husband. She was desirous of putting into 
 use and exercise the advice which the old man 
 had given her, and would have sallied forth, even 
 then, to look after him, when the stranger dissua 
 ded her from it. 
 
72 CARL WERNER. 
 
 " * Do you remain,' he said, * while I go forth 
 and seek him.' 
 
 " ' You !' she said ' no, father, you are too 
 old and feeble, and your limbs are weary with the 
 long day's travel.' 
 
 " He rose, as she spoke these words, and as he 
 moved over the floor, she was answered. Where 
 had those aged limbs acquired that strength and 
 elasticity which they now exhibited ? 
 
 " ' But you know not where to seek him, my 
 father.' 
 
 " He smiled ; and she did not doubt, when she 
 beheld that smile, that the aged man knew better 
 where to find her husband than she did herself. 
 He paused as he crossed the threshold, and bid 
 ding her be of good cheer, he blessed the house 
 and departed. 
 
 XV. 
 
 " Meanwhile, what of Carl Werner ? With a 
 fearful instinct he proceeded, upon leaving his 
 dwelling, to the place of meeting with the spectre. 
 Vainly did he strive against the fascination which 
 impelled him to seek the abbey. Why should he 
 so wilfully seek that which was so full of torture ? 
 
CARL WERNER. 73 
 
 He had now no wish to hear the revelations of the 
 dead he had no thought, certainly, to profit by 
 them, when brought by one whose very presence 
 was so terrific ; still less did he desire to owe his 
 knowledge to a source so foul and fearful. These 
 were his thoughts, nor his thoughts merely. 
 These were his frequent resolves throughout the 
 day. I will not go to-night,' his lips muttered 
 at all hours ; yet, with the coining of evening, his 
 good resolutions failed him. A power whicli he 
 strove vainly to resist, drove him onward ; and like 
 the criminal, reluctant yet compelled, he appeared 
 regularly at the appointed hour at the summons of 
 his tyrant. Carl felt that there was a judgment in 
 all this. He felt that it was a decree of heaven 
 against him for the unholy feelings and desires of 
 his heart. Yet, where, and when, and how, was 
 this to end ? He dared not think ! His knees 
 trembled beneath him as he put this question to 
 himself, and felt, with the increasing weakness 
 and misery of every moment, that it could end 
 only in his death. 
 
 " This conviction was despair. Despair has its 
 strength, but it is the strength accorded by a de 
 mon at a fearful price. The price was hope and 
 peace the penalty was the loss of two lives 
 the life of the present, and the life to come. Carl 
 
 VOL. i. 7 
 
74 CARL WERNER. 
 
 felt that they were already gone, and all his 
 thoughts were now given to the demon. The 
 principle of hate grew active in his fears, and the 
 principle of love grew feebler and feebler, in the 
 continual decay of his hopes. The strife was not 
 only against Carl Warner, but it was against the 
 sweet young wife of his bosom. He felt it to be 
 so, himself, as he found himself continually labor 
 ing not to think of her. 
 
 " We need not say, that in the abbey that night, 
 the same hour of torture was passed by Carl, in 
 company with the demon, as before. The belief 
 that his friend was the victim and the slave of hell, 
 sent forth by the infernal monarch to perform a 
 duty which he dared not disobey, was the racking 
 conviction to Carl. Vainly he demanded of the 
 spectre to disavow the features he had assumed. 
 His prayer was idle. Would the principle of 
 hate yield up his chief vantage ground ? As well 
 might he implore indulgence from that power, 
 whose only office is punishment. He raved to the 
 demon defied his malice, and vainly flattered 
 himself that the passion which he showed to his 
 tormentor, was, in reality, a re-assertion of his vir 
 tue. Thus do men hourly chain themselves with 
 their own sophisms. The very tumult in his soul, 
 and the violence of his lips, as they sprang from a 
 
CARL WERNER. 75 
 
 feeling of hostility, were, in truth, only so many 
 tributes to the principle of hate. The fearless 
 calm, the gentle earnestness of love, were not in 
 his heart. It was rather a place of fears and strife ; 
 and every moment of his paroxysm, increased the 
 number of avenues through which sin might enter 
 and perpetuate its sway. The conflict nearly de 
 stroyed the mortal. Almost exhausted, Carl 
 rushed from the ruins; and, this time, he left the 
 demon squat upon the tomb-stone, where he had 
 sat all the time of their conference, glowing and 
 grinning at the agony, and yelling forth his dread 
 ful laughter, as he beheld the flight of the victim. 
 . 
 
 XVI. 
 
 " Carl was not permitted to reach his home in 
 peace. A group of revellers stood in his path 
 as he w 7 as about to enter the village. They 
 danced and sang at his approach, and soon gath 
 ered around him with tumultuous cries. They 
 sang in his ears the praises of revelry, and invited 
 him to join them. 
 
 " 'Be not churlish, brother,' was the cry 
 6 why cherish care? why mate with sorrow ? why 
 deny thyself to live? The wine, the wine, boys, 
 
76 CARL WERNER. 
 
 and here's health and a fresh heart to our new 
 companion/ 
 
 " Carl envied them their felicity ; and their 
 language, for the first time in his life, seemed 
 sweet in his ears. Hitherto, he had led the life of 
 an abstemious and wholly studious youth, reject 
 ing utterly those noisy and spendthrift pleasures 
 which are so apt to lead astray the young. He 
 began to think that he had erred in his practice, 
 and had been guilty of injustice to a class of per 
 sons who were a great deal wiser than himself. 
 The torments which he had just undergone, pre 
 pared him for this way of thinking. He hesita 
 ted, murmured, looked vacantly around him, and 
 they took him gently by the arm, and renewed 
 their solicitations. Among the foremost of these, 
 he now recognized the bacchanalian who had be 
 fore assailed him. But he was not intoxicated on 
 this occasion ; and while he spoke with the words 
 and warmth of a boon companion, his language 
 was carefully chosen and gently insinuating. Carl 
 began to yield ; his eyes were already turned in 
 longing upon the tavern his feet were at the 
 guidance of the individual we have just spoken 
 of in his thought, the indulgence of wine began 
 to assume the appearance of a leading and neces 
 sary object : and in another moment the powers of 
 
CARL WERNER. 77 
 
 evil would have made large strides towards the 
 possession of their victim, when another hand 
 pressed the arm of Carl Werner, and a g >r-tle, 
 but strange voice, in his ears pronounced the 
 name of his wife. 
 
 " * Matilda she waits you, Carl she suffers 
 at your long absence. Will you not go to her ?' 
 
 " The old man whom we have seen setting forth 
 from the house of the wife in search of the husband, 
 stood at his elbow. He had come in time. His 
 words operated like magic, and Carl broke away 
 from his conductors. 
 
 " l Matilda my wife my poor wife !' he ex 
 claimed ' Yes let me go to her.' 
 
 If the words of the aged man were so quick and 
 powerful to move Carl Werner, his presence seem 
 ed to have no less an effect upon those who sought 
 to lead the youth astray. They shrank away 
 from the stranger with hisses, and though reviling 
 him, they still fled. Carl was surprised at this, 
 and the more surprised and horror stricken 
 when he distinguished among the howls and hisses 
 of the flying crew, the horrible laugh which 
 had so much haunted him before. The old man 
 took no heed of their clamor, but composedly 
 conversed with Carl while they proceeded to the 
 
 lodgings of the latter, with all the calmness and 
 
 7* 
 
78 CARL WERNER. 
 
 ease of one whom a confidence of superiority keeps 
 from anger towards an inferior, as certainly as it 
 protects from harm. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 * 
 
 " Carl felt better and happier in the embraces of 
 his wife when he reached home, than he had felt 
 for some days before. The principle of love was 
 reviving within him. The conversation of their 
 aged guest contributed largely to this improve 
 ment. They could not but acknowledge the in 
 fluence which they could not but feel. Yet he 
 could scarcely be said to converse. His words 
 seemed so many laws settling doubts and silenc 
 ing controversy. He spoke from authority from 
 an authority, seemingly, even beyond that of strong 
 common sense and great experience. Carl was 
 surprised and pleased to find himself able to listen 
 to his words ; and though the terrible strifes which 
 he had recently undergone were still busy in his 
 mind, he yet found pleasure in his new compa 
 nion. Much of the old man's conversation seemed, 
 indeed, to be intended for his particular case. He 
 spoke of the ' various encounters to which mor 
 tals were subject.. The necessity of confidence in 
 
CARL WERNER; 79 
 
 heaven's justice the willingness to wait the 
 readiness to endure. He then spoke of the prin 
 ciple of love as he had spoken to Matilda. He 
 insisted upon it as sufficiently strong- to withstand 
 the opposite principle of hate, and to trample over 
 it in the end. The conflict, he said, would be 
 long and perilous, and it would be continued 
 through nations and individuals to the end of 
 time ; patience, he said, and perseverance, 
 prompted by the spirit of love, which is eternal, 
 would be certain to achieve the victory. In the 
 meantime, it would be necessary that the labors of 
 love should be increased and strengthened. We 
 should strive to love one another, as the best policy, 
 and the noblest moral economy. Every falling oft' 
 in our affections from each other, was a gain to 
 the rebelling principle of hate, and kept back hu 
 manity from its hope of heaven. Every increase in 
 the amount of human love, was a succor to the 
 sovereign principle ; as much so, as, in the warfare 
 among men, would be the accession of new num 
 bers. To love one another is to conquer evil, for 
 as evil toils through the principle of hate, it can 
 only be successful over us, by engendering in our 
 bosoms hostility to our fellows, and a general 
 faithlessness of each other, which must produce 
 hostility. To confide, should be the first lesson,. 
 
80 CARL WERNER. 
 
 as it is always the first and noblest proof of 
 love!' 
 
 " This counsel strengthened Carl Werner and 
 his wife, and made them both think. Carl felt 
 calmer as he thought, and retired to his chamber 
 with new and better resolutions. The old man 
 prayed with the two before they retired ; but though 
 Carl knelt with the rest, he yet found it impossi 
 ble to pray. He could only think, and his 
 thoughts were confused, apprehensive, and not 
 given, as he felt himself, to the sovereign principle 
 of love. When he retired to his chamber, he re 
 solved to pray alone ; but he could not. He 
 knelt by the bedside in vain. His tongue seemed 
 to cleave to the roof of his mouth. His brain 
 seemed to glow like fire, and he longed once more 
 for the presence and the conversation of the aged 
 man. He slept but little during the night, and 
 when Matilda awakened at intervals, she heard 
 nothing but his groans. 
 
 " The next day the old man sought an oppor 
 tunity of conversation with Matilda in secret. 
 
 "'My daughter,' he said, 'your husband 
 must not go forth to-night. You must exert all 
 your strength all the strength of your love; 
 spare no prayers, no solicitations, but you must 
 keep him at home. He goes to pay homage to 
 
CARL WERNER. 81 
 
 the principle of hate. He must break his bondage. 
 He must withhold his homage ; and he must prove 
 that he renounces the hateful worship, ere the prin 
 ciple of love will come certainly to his aid. He will 
 not find relief he cannot be happy till then ; 
 and he must do this himself. We can do nothing 
 towards it, save by our prayers, and these will be 
 of little avail, until, of his own resolve, he breaks 
 to you the secret of his sorrow. When he freely 
 and voluntarily declares to you the trouble of his 
 mind, he will find relief. To confide our wo to a 
 beloved one, is to find healing. He must acknow 
 ledge this truth, ere he can hope for healing ; and 
 it is a truth that he must teach himself. I warn 
 you, therefore, unfold nothing that I have said to 
 you, which shall move him to this determination, 
 else it will be of no avail. We may tremble, but 
 we must be silent ; and if our fears become 
 stronger than our hopes, we must then only resort 
 to our prayers.' 
 
 " That day the old man gave Carl himself a 
 lesson which had its effect in promoting the wishes 
 of all, though, to the passing thought, it would 
 seem to have no necessary connexion with the mis 
 fortunes of the latter. He saw him in a condition 
 of stupor, sitting upon the threshold, and evi 
 dently unconscious of all things around him. 
 
82 CARL WERNER. 
 
 " My son,' he said, * we do not all our duties 
 when we have said our prayers. Indeed, we may 
 be said to do none of them, if we do but this. Our 
 prayers are offered that we may have strength and 
 judgment to perform our duties rightly and tho 
 roughly. The first of these is industry. The de 
 cree of God one of the first is one of the ele 
 ments of religion. " Thou shalt earn thy bread 
 in the sweat of thy face." He who prays merely, 
 and toils none, is a hypocrite, and though he may 
 deceive himself and his fellow men, he cannot de 
 ceive God by his professions.' 
 
 "'Alas! my father I would work,' said the 
 unhappy Carl, but I cannot I am sick I am 
 sad too sad too sick to work.' 
 " ' Hast thou tried, my son.' 
 " ; Of what use to try, my father.** I feel that I 
 should do nothing.' 
 
 " ' The will is the service, my son. God tasks 
 not your service, but he receives the free tribute 
 of your heart, and if the will is free to serve him, 
 the amount of your body's service is of little re 
 gard. Try let the will govern the limbs, and 
 they will do much. Certainly, thy labor will les 
 sen the troubles of thy mind, which, in most cases, 
 spring from the tyrannous imbecility of the frame. 
 
CARL WERNER. 83 
 
 Try, my son thy labors will avail thee much 
 more in thy sadness than all thy prayers.' 
 
 " Carl obeyed, and strove diligently to labor, 
 and though he did but little, yet he felt better from 
 what he did. The old man conversed with him 
 while he toiled, and he gathered goodly counsel, 
 and pleasant consolation, from his words. But as 
 the day waned, the agonizing apprehensions of 
 Carl were renewed. The fascinating spells of the 
 demon began to work upon his mind, and his in 
 creasing disquiet became visible to his household. 
 At supper he was unconscious of the meats before 
 him, until the words of the aged guest aroused his 
 consideration, while be prayed for a blessing upon 
 the repast. Carl gradually grew fixed in mute 
 attention as he listened to the terms of this prayer, 
 which was, in some respects, peculiar. The old 
 man prayed that ' the fond husband might ever be 
 heedful of the affections with which he had been 
 endowed by the confiding wife that he might 
 heed the meaning of her pale cheek, her tearful 
 eye, and laboring bosom that he might never 
 estrange himself from one who looked so much, so 
 entirely to him, for countenance and comfort and 
 that the ways of error into which frail mortality 
 was ever but too t rone to fall, might never seduce 
 
84 CARL WERNER. 
 
 the regards of the comforter, from the weak but 
 confiding heart to which they were entirely due.' 
 " Much more after this fashion was said by the 
 old man, but these words had their effect. Carl 
 looked upon his wife with eyes of closer inquiry 
 than he had fixed upon her for many days. He 
 saw, for the first time, that her cheek was pale 
 as if death had set his hand upon it that her eye 
 was full of tears and that her bosom heaved 
 with an anguish which her lips had never spoken. 
 Her eye caught the glance of his own while he 
 gazed, and she burst into a flood of tears rose 
 from the table rushed to the spot where her 
 husband sat, and threw herself at his feet. How 
 dreadfully was he shocked by this movement ! 
 How bitterly did he reproach himself! He felt 
 that he had been selfish that, heedful of his own 
 sufferings only, he had given neither eye nor 
 thought to hers. He sank down upon the floor 
 beside her ; and he muttered broken words, implo 
 ring forgiveness. The venerable guest saw that 
 the moment was come, when love was to obtain 
 the mastery or forever fail ; and without being 
 seen by the two, he left the apartment. But his 
 words had been deeply impressed upon the mind 
 of Matilda, and she needed not his presence to 
 prompt her in the performance of her task. She 
 
CARL WERNER. 85 
 
 poured out her full heart to her husband, told him 
 of her fears during his absence, of her sufferings 
 as she beheld the sapping and overcoming charac 
 ter of his, and implored him, for the love which he 
 had once vowed her, as earnestly as if she had 
 lost it. Long and trying was their conference, 
 and more than once the wife despaired of her ob 
 ject. But though she trembled, she yet implored, 
 and the principle of love prevailed. The heart of 
 Carl was touched the seal removed from the 
 fountain and he poured forth, in her astounded 
 but unshrinking senses, the whole strange and 
 dreadful secret. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 " He had scarcely done so, when he heard a tap 
 on the window, as of one claiming admission. He 
 started, he trembled a guilty fear rose in his 
 throat and choked him. 
 
 " ' It is he the demon the spectre !' he ex 
 claimed, gaspingly. 
 
 " ' Bid him enter,' cried the old man, who had 
 returned to the apartment without their perceiving 
 either his departure or his entrance, and who 
 VOL i. 8 
 
86 CARL WERNER. 
 
 seemed perfectly conversant with the whole narra 
 tive 
 
 " < Bid him enter, Carl.' 
 
 " But Carl hesitated and trembled. He moved 
 not ; and Matilda rose to her feet. 
 
 "'I fear nothing!' she -exclaimed l I will 
 throw open the window. If it be the spirit of 
 Herman Ottfried, he will not harm me. If it be 
 other than his, it cannot. God be with me for 
 I will do it!' 
 
 " The voice of the old man arrested her, as she 
 was about to do what she had said. 
 
 " < Daughter !' 
 
 " She turned, and saw that his eye rested anx 
 iously upon Carl, and she then understood that 
 the office belonged to her husband. She did not 
 need to look upon him twice. He had been pray 
 ing while she spoke, and he now rose. 
 
 " 'No, Matilda the task should be mine. I 
 have looked upon the fiend before I do not fear 
 to look upon him again. Still less do I fear 
 having your eyes upon, and your prayers for, me.' 
 
 " A horrible yell of laughter reached his ears from 
 the outside, and half unmanned him. He shivered 
 all over ; but just then the aged guest repeated 
 these words, as if for himself. 
 
 " The Lord is my strength, and my redeemer. 
 
CARL WERNER. 87 
 
 He is with me, and I fear not the evil one. Be of 
 good cheer, oh, my soul, for in this is thy strength. 
 Thou shalt prevail in the strife with thy enemy, 
 even as love prevaileth over hate, and the spirit of 
 God over the spirit of the devil.' 
 
 " With a single blow of his fist, Carl threw 
 wide the shutter, and though his voice trembled 
 while he spoke, yet the words which he uttered 
 were distinct 
 
 " t Enter if it be God's will enter!' 
 
 XIX. 
 
 " The mocking spectre was once more before 
 him and the grin of malice and imagined victory 
 was again visible upon his countenance, until he 
 beheld the form of the venerable guest, still kneel 
 ing upon the floor, with eyes and hands uplifted to 
 heaven, and seeming as if he beheld him not. 
 Then his whole aspect was altered. His grin be 
 came a bitter scorn, and, thoilgh he still wore the 
 exact features of Herman Ottfried, yet the whole 
 expression was so changed to that of a hellish hate, 
 that, even to the eyes of Carl, the likeness seemed 
 almost gone. 
 
88 CARL WERNER. 
 
 " { Thou here !' exclaimed the spectre, address 
 ing the aged man. 
 
 " ' Thou seest!' was the reply. 
 
 1 1 S ee but thou art here in vain thy 
 prayers will avail him nothing he hath bound 
 himself to me. My power is upon his pledge. 
 He cannot escape he must meet me where I 
 will ; and when he forbears to come when, 
 urged by such as thee, he presumes to disobey, I 
 will seek him with redoubled tortures, where he 
 hides, and tear him from thy very altars. Carl 
 Werner I command thee. Come !* 
 
 " Carl trembled all over, and he felt an irresist 
 ible power dragging him forward. At this mo 
 ment the old man spoke 
 
 " 'His pledge shall be fulfilled but not to 
 thee. Look, Satan ! -God hath heard the pray 
 ers of love and his messenger comes to release 
 the thrall of hate. Look ! the pledge is re 
 deemed ?' 
 
 "As he spoke, he pointed to the opposite corner 
 of the apartment, upon which his eyes had been 
 earnestly fixed, even while the demon was address 
 ing him. There, visible to all, stood another 
 spectre, having the precise features of Herman 
 Ottfried, and the very expression which he was 
 wont to wear in life. The contrast between the 
 
CARL WERNER. 
 
 89 
 
 one and the other spectre, both having the same 
 features, was prodigious! They represented dif 
 ferent principles. The one had borne the fea 
 tures of punishment the other came with the 
 mild attributes of mercy. Alike in every feature, 
 they were yet as utterly unlike as night and day. 
 
 " The demon put on a look of agony, mingled 
 with hate and disappointment, as, with a howl and 
 hiss, he fled from the presence of the spectre whose 
 features he had worn for the purposes of hate, but 
 whose glance of benignity and love he could not 
 withstand. Howling with hate, he fled ; while the 
 gentle spirit advanced into the apartment. 
 
 " 'Oh, brother, dearest Herman!' cried the 
 sister, with a joyful accent, as she rushed towards 
 him. She sunk down upon the spot where she 
 would have embraced him, and her eyes beheld 
 his shadowy form melting away, even like the last 
 gleam of a lovely sunset into the distant shadows. 
 
 " ' Look to your wife, my son,' said the aged 
 man * she swoons give her help.' 
 
 " Carl raised his wife, and in a little while she 
 recovered but the aged man had disappeared. 
 They never saw him again. 
 
 8* 
 
IPSISTOS. 3 
 
 "With this 
 
 I mix more lowly matter ; with the thing 
 Contemplated, describe the mind of man, 
 Contemplating ; and who, and what he was, 
 The transitory being that beheld 
 This vision, when, and where, and how he lived." 
 
 Wordsworth. 
 
IPSISTOS; 
 
 WITH the first tokens of the gray dawning, and 
 while yet the thin gray mists lay like a gauzy veil 
 above the half-canopied mountains, the gates of 
 the great city were thrown open, and the people 
 thereof began to pour forth in mighty crowds. 
 Like a swollen torrent, that forces its way over 
 the barrier and broken rocks, they came roaring 
 and rushing, less with the innate feeling of power 
 than of enjoyment. A universal spirit of intoxi 
 cation seemed to possess the multitude, and by 
 tens, by twenties, and by hundreds, with wild and 
 dissonant cries of mingling yet discordant voices, 
 they pressed their way through the narrow gate 
 way, and came forth clamoring upon the plain. 
 The aged and the yet green in youth wise, ven 
 erable men -devout matrons, trembling and 
 hopeful maidens, and sportive childhood, that 
 
94 IPSISTOS. 
 
 laughs and leaps, were mingling 1 together, until, 
 even ere the sun had yet risen, the vast esplanade 
 in front of the city was covered with their forms. 
 One mighty will seemed to move in every heart, 
 and to unite all voices in a universal song, as if 
 for some great deliverance. An hundred thou 
 sand tongues mingled in the strain, and the hills 
 that surrounded them gave back the melody with a 
 seven-fold echo. 
 
 "Lofty and beautiful is the temple that stands 
 above the hill !" Such was the song of the multi 
 tude. " Lofty is the temple on the high hill, and 
 lovely is the goddess who sits in power therein. 
 Let us to the temple, oh ! ye people. Let us bow 
 down before the goddess thereof, and bury our 
 faces in the sacred dust that lies at her footstool. 
 Let. us put her feet upon our necks, and grow 
 great by reason of our abasement. Let us carry 
 the fatted lamb and the bleating kid, for sweet is 
 the savor of the burnt offering in her nostrils, and 
 she smiles when the flamen smites the heavy ox 
 in the forehead, and his dying blood besprinkles 
 her garments. To the temple on the hill, oh ! ye 
 people, to the lovely goddess who dwells there 
 in. Let us fly to her worship, let us bring our 
 offerings, the fatted lamb and the calf, and the 
 bleating kid, let us twine about their necks the 
 
IPSISTOS. 95 
 
 flowers that are in season, and hang their brows 
 with clusters of the bleeding grape, that so we 
 may show our love for the goddess -and the 
 priests, and our reverence for the white temple 
 that stands lofty upon the hill." 
 
 And when these words were ended, the shout 
 ing of the far-stretching multitude grew great 
 again, like the clamor of meeting winds and waters ; 
 and they ran towards the white temple that rose 
 proudly on the high hill in the rosy light of the 
 morning the swift leading the way, and the 
 strong rushing after, giving no heed to the cries 
 and the groans of the feeble and the young, whom 
 they overthrew and trampled in the fury of their 
 flight. Well did they know that the goddess 
 whom they sought would freely forgive the evil 
 which happened only from the overflowing of their 
 zeal in her worship. And many were the priests 
 that did homage for that people around the altars 
 of the goddess. And they prayed before her 
 presence, that she would come forth and lend grace 
 to her worshippers by the smile of her benignant 
 countenance. And the multitude brought great 
 store of gold and jewels, and with gifts of value 
 rewarded those who served them in this wise. 
 They brought bracelets for the arms of solid 
 gold, and bright drops of amber and of pearl 
 
96 IPSISTOS. 
 
 of jewels from the mine, and pale blue water-gems 
 rom the deep to hang around the necks, and 
 fasten in the ears, of that sacred priesthood. And 
 the holy men prayed steadfastly before the god 
 dess for the multitude, and the goddess vouchsafed 
 to hear and to smile upon their prayers. And the 
 golden gates of the temple were thrown wide, and 
 the multitude shouted anew by reason of their ex 
 ceeding joy; and, in the madness of their devo 
 tion, many of them rushed towards the golden en 
 trance, ere the priest had yet veiled the glory 
 shining from within; but were driven back and 
 blinded by the streams of excessive light which 
 encountered them as they came. But soon the 
 gong sounded, which was the signal for the god 
 dess to appear and the guards that waited upon 
 the priests, with their golden lances, drove back 
 the impatient multitude from the path of the pro 
 cession, which was to move towards the great city, 
 that it might be blessed with the presence of the 
 goddess. Then, as the crowd gave way, came 
 forth the car of the sun, borne by the sacred ox, 
 whose horns, covered with gold, had each a glori 
 ous emerald shining thereon. And the rays of 
 that golden orb dazzled the eyes of those who too 
 confidently beheld it, and they threw themselves 
 upon the sands as it came, and the sacred ox 
 
IPSISTOS. 97 
 
 pressed with heavy feet upon their necks. Then, 
 perched upon a crystal bough, and borne by a 
 lovely boy, whose long yellow hair floated in 
 trained luxuriance down his back, came forth the 
 milk-white pigeon, which bore the words of the 
 goddess to her distant worshippers; and the boy 
 that carried the pigeon was blind from hrs birth, 
 and it was the eyes of the sacred bird that guided 
 him in his progress ; and sometimes, as he went, 
 the pigeon would fly off from tlie bough to bear 
 the words of the goddess to the priesthood, and 
 at such moments the boy stoojd still. Next came 
 one whose arms were bound to his side, and he was 
 clothed in yellow garments, and he bore upon his 
 head a crystal globe, which was the sign of eter 
 nity, and within might be seen a butterfly with 
 folded wing, and this was the sign of immortality. 
 He was followed by an hundred others, bound and 
 attired like himself, and their bonds were a token 
 that they opposed not the will of the goddess ; 
 and they bore the globe and butterfly by turns. 
 As they advanced from the temple, the mighty and 
 mixed multitude, which had fallen into sudden 
 silence when the golden sun came forth, now, as 
 suddenly, rose into clamorous rejoicing the hills 
 shook in their shouting; and, from the vast circle 
 of the plain, the continued voices bore to the city 
 VOL. i. 9 
 
98 IPSISTOS. 
 
 the glad tidings of the coming of the goddess. 
 Next came the slaves an hundred ebon-dyed 
 slaves from Ethiopia and they bore heavy cen 
 sers of crystal ; and ever and anon they scattered 
 sweet incense among the people. A girdle of sil 
 ver cloth was wrapped about their loins, and they 
 wore a collar of silver, and a chain about the neck, 
 of silver also. A chosen band followed these, of 
 the youth dedicated to the priesthood ; and they 
 wore no badges, and their garments were of the 
 coarsest woollen. After these came the sages, the 
 wisest and the most venerable among those who 
 had given themselves to the service of the god 
 dess from their childhood. They wore long white 
 beards, and they were greatly reverenced among 
 the people by reason of their close neighborhood 
 to the goddess, and as they were the first to know 
 and to declare her irrevocable decrees. In their 
 secret abodes they had traced the history and du 
 ties of the heavenly bodies had locked up the 
 niggard sciences in narrow cells, making them 
 servants, and denying them to that world which 
 they were intended to inform ; but which, in its 
 inferior ignorance, might only have abused their 
 offices. To these succeeded the artificers, the 
 painters, the builders, the workers in fire, and the 
 secret properties of subtle minerals. Then came 
 
IPSISTOS. 99 
 
 the high priest, an experienced magician, than 
 whom the great city knew none more wise and 
 more in favor with the goddess. He stood upon 
 the platform, which was of solid brass, upon which 
 the throne of the goddess was raised. His robes 
 were of sable, but under them might be seen a 
 belt of purple and living fire. A serpent twined 
 itself about his arm, and sometimes lifted its green 
 head above the shoulder of the priest, whose hand 
 grasped it by the middle. As he advanced, his 
 presence announced that of the Deity, and was 
 acknowledged by an astounding shout from the 
 anxious multitude. The car of the goddess, it 
 self a temple, now rolled heavily through the bra 
 zen entrance. It was drawn by the ponderous be 
 hemoth, whose hoofs were coated with silver, and 
 whose forward step shook the solid earth over 
 which he came. Around the car, a troop of love 
 ly priestesses danced on feet that spurned the air, 
 and their forms, flexible as light, melted and sunk 
 away into continual and changing shapes of grace 
 and luxuriance ; and tears of light gathered in the 
 eyes of the young men of the multitude, as they 
 looked upon their voluptuous involutions. These 
 closed the procession, and as they passed from the 
 brazen door of the temple, it shut, of itself, with a 
 startling and tremendous sound. 
 
100 IPSJSTOS. 
 
 II. 
 
 But there was one of all that mighty and mixed 
 multitude, that felt not with the rest that saw not 
 with their eyes, nor measured the things he saw 
 by their understandings. He came with them 
 from the city, for he dared not remain behind, in 
 that time of general jubilee; but his voice joined 
 not with the rest in swelling the clamor of rejoi 
 cing. With slow steps and a sick spirit, he fol 
 lowed far behind, and his heart grew cold in his 
 bosom, as he beheld their wild impatience, and wit 
 nessed the headlong fury of their devotion. Their 
 cries stunned and troubled him, and the big tears 
 gathered upon his eye-lashes. 
 
 " Beautiful, indeed," murmured Ipsistos to his 
 own heart, " beautiful, indeed, is the goddess, 
 lovely beyond the loveliness of woman, whom 
 the keen eye of the builder beheld, where she lay 
 buried in the bosom of the solid rock, whence his 
 nice hand arad searching instrument of steel, gave 
 her release. With the fine touch of endowing art 
 he removed the rude dints of the heavy masses 
 which had lain so long upon her visage, and 
 brought back the light into her features, and the 
 
IPSISTOS. 101 
 
 Jife which belongs only to expression, which had 
 been banished from them so long. In her temple 
 have the people raised her, and they behold in her 
 countenance nothing but perfection. Jn her they 
 see the embodied form of the universal and diffu 
 sive truth, and they claim for her the possession of 
 a perfect beauty. But to me all the sweet convic 
 tion, which makes the heart confident in its hope, 
 and brings it peace, seems utterly denied. To 
 me she does not seem the true ; neither, though she 
 is beautiful, can I esteem her the perfect beauty 
 which so immutable a goddess should be. She 
 wins not my heart when I behold her, her charms 
 gather only upon mine eyes. With reluctant 
 hand I lay the first fruits upon her altars even as 
 I am bidden, but she knows that it is only as I am 
 bidden that I bring them, and though she smiles 
 upon others, she, methinks, hath a frown only and 
 ever for me. I pray to her for the blessing, and 
 she withholds it ; yet wherefore should she with 
 hold it when I pray only to be wise. Alas ! I 
 inquire of these things in vain. The mists gather 
 more thickly around me, and when my brethren 
 cry loudest in rejoicing for the light which as- 
 ceadeth, then, upon my sight, the darkness falls 
 more heavily than ever. My soul is sorrowful 
 within me. The prayer that I make returns upon 
 9* 
 
102 IPSISTOS; 
 
 me with the bitterness of rejection. Wherefore 
 should this be so ? Wherefore, of all this multi 
 tude, should I, alone, be joyless and voiceless ? 
 My brothers they come back from the temple, 
 having the song still upon their lips, and the smile 
 still in their hearts. My sisters enter with laugh 
 ter the dwelling of my father, though poverty sits 
 upon the hearth, and weeps because of the cold. 
 The smile of the goddess hath blessed them, until 
 they forget the withered and wrinkled grandsire 
 whom they leave famishing at home. Alas ! for 
 me, when I see the burnt offerings and the fruits 
 upon the altars of the goddess, I think not upon 
 her worship, but upon his want. Wherefore 
 should the goddess need as a testimony of our 
 homage the waste of her own fruits, which had 
 else cheered the heart and strengthened the limbs 
 of age and poverty. Wherefore ah !" 
 
 A terrible voice sounded in the ears of the 
 youth : 
 
 "Ipsistos!"' 
 
 He shivered with terror as he looked up. The 
 car of the goddess was rolling onwards, and her 
 eye was fixed upon him with a glance that seemed 
 to search and freeze his soul. The voice of the 
 chief priest, a second time, reached his ears in low 
 accents, unheard by any but the youth. 
 
IPSISTOS. 103 
 
 " Ipsistos ! The eye of the goddess is upon 
 thee. She looks into thy heart. She beholds thy 
 discontent. Beware !" 
 
 The youth sank upon his knees r and clasping 
 his hands above his head, he bowed his face to the 
 diist while the car passed onwards. 
 
 "Alas!" moaned the stricken youth as the 
 crowd rolled between him and the priest, " I am 
 doomed !" 
 
 And there he lay prostrate and desponding, 
 while the elated crowd, forgetting all wretched 
 ness of their brother, felt only the triumph of that 
 power which permitted them to kneel ! 
 
 m. 
 
 "Ipsistos!" said the sacred messenger of the 
 temple, touching the melancholy youth with the 
 spiral rod of his office, " thou art called." 
 
 " Whither ?" demanded the youth. 
 
 "To the temple !" was the answer of authority. 
 
 " I obey ! I follow thee !" said the youth, with 
 fear and trembling. 
 
 " It is well. Bermahdi awaits thee." 
 
 And Ipsistos prepared to follow as he was com 
 manded, and his heart was full of fears ; for had he 
 
104 IPSISTOS. 
 
 not heard from Bermahdi that the goddess was a 
 jealous goddess quick to see the falling off of 
 the worshipper at her altars, and terrible in her 
 punishments for every departure from the law as 
 it is written. 
 
 " Fare thee well, my father," cried the youth, 
 "I am commanded to leave thee for awhile." 
 
 " Who commands thee, my son ?" said the ven 
 erable man. 
 
 " Bermahdi." 
 
 "Ha.! Thou hast sinned, my son. Thou 
 hast sinned against the goddess." 
 
 "I fear me." 
 
 And the old man trembled, and fell upon his 
 face, as the favorite of his eyes departed. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Ipsistos stood in the presence of Bermahdi, the 
 white-bearded, and his heart sank within him. 
 Wondrous was the chamber in which he stood, 
 strange were all the objects and aspects around 
 him. The roof of that chamber was vaulted like 
 the sky, and studded with a thousand stars. Clouds 
 hung aloft, now rising and now receding, and 
 from them, at moments, Ipsistos could see the keen 
 
IPSISTOS. 105 
 
 and cold eye of the goddess looking down upon 
 him. The vault was upborne by gigantic figures 
 of black martle, that moved around him in a con 
 stant circle ; and, ever and anon, a heavy instru 
 ment of sounding metal told the progress of the 
 never stopping hours. A burning mirror stood 
 upright against the wall, and Ipsistos beheld with 
 in it the constant progress of things as they con 
 cerned the people of the goddess. And he saw 
 himself within it, even he, Ipsistos, but the figure 
 paused not, but disappeared at the waving of the 
 hand of Bermahdi. The chief priest sat before a 
 table of red porphyry, on which the characters and 
 signs of the seasons were inscribed. Instruments 
 of strange form, and to him, unknown uses, lay 
 upon the table. Bermahdi was a magician of 
 unbounded wisdom, and his studies were as vari 
 ous as the faces of the stars of heaven. He seemed, 
 even then, to be toiling in the divine arts of astro 
 logy ; and when Ipsistos regarded his stern but 
 venerable aspect, and saw the strange instruments 
 around him, and beheld the books in languages 
 unknown, gathered with great pains and at won 
 drous cost from the remotest nations, his awe, 
 mingling with the apprehensions which his soul 
 felt at the summons of the sacred messenger, be- 
 
106 IPSISTOS. 
 
 came a sort of terror, and he trembled in the pre 
 sence of the holy man. 
 
 " Ipsistos !" said Bermahdi, " approach !" 
 
 And as the youth drew nigh to the table an 
 hundred serpents sprang forward, with hissing fury 
 and open jaws, ready to devour the intruder; but, 
 at the word of Bermahdi, they crawled back to 
 the slimy baskets where they had lain coiled in 
 sleep, and offered no farther interruption to his ap 
 proach. 
 
 " Ipsistos ! thou had'st been doomed but for 
 thy youth. Thou art poor and feeble, else thou 
 had'st perished. Had'st thou been high among 
 the people, high of birth and fortune, this 
 night thou had'st fed the sacred serpents of the 
 goddess, whom, in thy secret thoughts, thou hast 
 contemned. Wherefore is this madness, Ipsistos ? 
 Thy brothers are devout worshippers, they come 
 with glad hearts and full hands to the temple, 
 they bend with reverence before the altar, they 
 heed the words of the goddess, and question not 
 her laws. But thou dost not, Ipsistos. In thy vain 
 soul thou hast asked t why is this ?' With thy 
 shallow understanding, thou wouldst judge the 
 decrees which are written for the world. Why 
 dost thou not believe, and trust, and do homage 
 like thy brothers ?" 
 
 "Alas! father! wherefore? It is from thee 
 
IPSISTOS. 107 
 
 that I would have the answer. Thou art the 
 favored of the goddess, I pray thee implore 
 her that she tell me, why I am other in spirit than 
 my brothers ?" 
 
 The holy man frowned gloomily as he listened 
 to these words of the unhappy youth. 
 
 " What, boy ! wouldst thou demand of the 
 goddess, why is this, and wherefore is that. I tell 
 thee that thy presumption prays a sudden judg 
 ment upon thee. Thy vain thoughts are working 
 out thy doom." 
 
 " Be merciful, father. I would not offend with 
 my presumption. I would school my heart unto 
 humility. It is to know the right only that 1 ask 
 to know at all. My prayer is for wisdom only." 
 
 "Thy prayer is insolent, boy. What! shall 
 we be all Magi. Shall wisdom be a thing to cast 
 in equal lots, shall we demand of the goddess 
 to be other than we are. Foolish and audacious 
 boy. Thou must learn to obey, ere thou art wise 
 to trust those who are the born counsellors of the 
 land, who have authority for judgment from the 
 goddess. Hast thou lived so long, and art thou 
 still ignorant of her power? Hast thou seen noth 
 ing to shew to thee the might which she has, be 
 yond that of thee and all thy people, and which 
 she puts forth daily through the hands of those 
 who tend upon her altars ? Hast thou not listened 
 
108 IPSISTOS. 
 
 to her oracles ? Does she not foretell the plague 
 which kills, the tempest which desolates, the ruler 
 of the city who shall best serve its interests, the 
 coming of the enemy whom ye fear ? Does not 
 her power dissipate the enemy, stay the plague, 
 repair the city, provide the ruler ? Is thy people 
 prosperous or not ?" 
 
 " Alas! father, poverty sits upon the hearth of 
 my sire, and the flesh is shrivelled upon his aged 
 limhs. The city is prosperous, but my father 
 lacks bread for his hunger, and he hath no raiment 
 against the cold." 
 
 " And what of this, idle boy. What is the 
 pleasure or the life of one, or even of a thousand, 
 in consideration of this great argument. Thy life 
 is but a span at best, and something must end it. 
 The goddess that gives thee life, hath surely a 
 right to prescribe its laws, its limits, and its vicissi 
 tudes. Believe this, and thy father suffers little ; 
 but even this pretence shall be denied thee l( r 
 complaint. Thou shalt carry from the-temple this 
 night the food which shall make him strong, and 
 the garments which shall bring the blood back 
 into his aged limbs. Will that content thee f" 
 
 " I will bless thee for it, father." 
 
 " And be true and joyful in thy worship of the 
 goddess f" 
 
IPSISTOS. 109 
 
 " I will strive with all my soul and with all my 
 strength, I will strive," replied Ipsistos. 
 
 " Thou shalt, or it shall be worse for thee. Lo ! 
 Here shalt thou see the power of the goddess. 
 Thou shalt behold sights never yet vouchsafed to 
 thy people. Look ! What seest thou ?" 
 
 And, as he spake, the magician uttered a word 
 of power, and the brooding cloud rolled away 
 from overhead, and the sun hung his broad and 
 burning shield above the eyes of Ipsistos, though, 
 it was then the mid hour of the night, so that they 
 were confounded and darkened by the blaze. And 
 when he looked again, the cold pale moon was 
 shining in its place. 
 
 " Thou hast seen the mansions of the sun and 
 moon, they are ever present to the goddess, and 
 visible at her command. Some of her power she 
 will now confer, even upon thee, that thou may'st 
 no longer doubt of her worship. Grasp me that 
 wand of ebony which thou seest upon the edge of 
 yon fountain." 
 
 The youth did so, and of a sudden it became a 
 serpent in his grasp. He flung it to the ground, 
 and it once more became a wand of ebony. 
 
 " Thou seest ; but that is not all. Thou shalt 
 cross unharmed upon those fiery bars over which 
 it is written that every devotee should go. But 
 
 VOL. i. 10 
 

 110 IPSISTOS. 
 
 first put off thy sandals, and put on these sacred 
 shoes which have been hallowed upon the altar of 
 the goddess." 
 
 The youth put on the shoes as he was directed, 
 and at the same instant a part of the wall opened 
 before him, and he beheld a bridge of fire-bars 
 which spanned a cavernous hollow of vast extent, 
 in which he could see nothing, but from which 
 there came a continual roaring like the evening 
 anthem of the sea. The youth shrank back from 
 the trial, but JBermahdi encouraged him. 
 
 " Fear nothing !" he said, " For thou wearest 
 sandals which have been .hallowed by the god 
 dess." A voice, soft, but clear, sad but melodious, 
 reached his ears an instant* after, which repeated 
 the words of encouragement. 
 
 " Fear nothing, Ipsistos. There is nought to 
 harm thee !" 
 
 " What voice is that!" cried Bermahdi, with 
 looks of unfeigned astonishment. 
 
 "Was it not the voice of the goddess?" said 
 Ipsistos, " methought it was she who spoke." 
 
 "Ay, it was, it must have been!" cried 
 Bermahdi, " it must have been the goddess. 
 Thou seest, my son, that she loves thee. Fear 
 nothing." 
 
IPSISTOS. Ill 
 
 "Fear nothing, Ipsistos," said the gentle voice 
 once more. 
 
 And the heart of Ipsistos was full of joy as he 
 heard it, but the countenance of Bermahdi was 
 troubled. The youth felt tears of pleasure steal 
 out upon his cheek, for the tones of that sweet 
 speaker sunk like music and peace into his heart. 
 He feared no longer, Boldly he advanced upon 
 the blazing bars, which, to his great wonder, gave 
 out no heat. And when he had passed over the 
 bridge to the opposite side of the cavern, he stood 
 in the presence of the goddess. But her looks 
 were lovely no longer. Anger blazed in her eyes, 
 and her lips were distorted by reason of the pas 
 sion within her breast. 
 
 " This is strange," said Bermahdi, " strange 
 that she should frown upon thee, Ipsistos, when 
 thou hast passed through the first trial of the novi 
 ciate. Thou wilt become a noviciate, my son." 
 
 " Wherefore, father ?" 
 
 " See'st thoti not that she frowns upon thee ?" 
 
 The youth was silent. 
 
 " Ha! dost thou refuse?" cried Bermahdi. 
 
 " No, no I refuse not but suffer me to think 
 upon it, my father. I am not yet worthy I 
 would meditate upon the wonders I have seen." 
 
 " Thou shalt! Go now in safety. The path 
 
112 IPSISTOS. 
 
 is clear. Nothing shall harm thee on thy way. 
 But see that thou hast early thought upon this, my 
 son. Thou hast thought, already, too much or too 
 little, and thy error must be amended. Remem 
 ber ! the eyes of the goddess are upon thee." 
 
 Again the gentle voice whispered in his ears. 
 
 " Fear nothing, Ipsistos ;" and when he looked 
 upon the statue of the goddess, her features were 
 convulsed with anger. A stream of fire seemed 
 to issue from her eyes, and with a shivering fear 
 that ran through all his veins like a sudden ague, 
 the youth fled from her terrific presence. 
 
 V. 
 
 He fled, but the gentle voice still lingered in his 
 ears, and as he left the portals of the temple, its 
 tones of encouragement were repeated. 
 
 " Fear nothing, Ipsistos. I am she whom in thy 
 secret soul thou lovest ; and I am powerful to pro 
 tect thee. Let the tyrant rage ; he shall not pre 
 vail against thy thought, nor against the true wor 
 ship which is already living in thy spirit. He may 
 cast thee into a dungeon he may load thee with 
 chains in his brute anger he may buffet thee, 
 and with his keen thong he may cover thee with 
 
IPSISTOS. 113 
 
 stripes ; but of a surety shalt thou live through 
 all, and glorious shall be thy triumph in the end. 
 Fear nothing, Ipsistos for, so long as thou keep- 
 est my voice in thy ears, so long shalt thou live, 
 and so sure shall be thy great victory over thy 
 enemy. Thou shalt tread upon his neck, Ip 
 sistos." 
 
 And the youth grew bold to speak to the voice 
 as he hearkened to these grateful words, and he 
 said 
 
 "And how, oh, sweetest whisper of the night 
 thou that stealest upon mine ear like a music from 
 heaven, and sinkest, blessing, into my heart like a 
 balmy food thereof ; how am I to keep thee for 
 ever nigh to me ? Tell me, that I may not lose 
 thee." 
 
 " By keeping me ever in thy heart, as thou dost 
 now. By seeking me as thou hast ever done !" 
 
 "How! blessed voice have I ever sought 
 thee before, when, until this hour, mine ears re 
 member not to have heard thee." 
 
 " Thine ear hath not heard me, Ipsistos, but day 
 and night, even from the hour of thy birth, have I 
 spoken to thy heart. Thou hast truly called me a 
 music from heaven, and a balmy food thereof. I 
 am both for I am that principle without which 
 10* 
 
114 IPS1STOS. 
 
 no music could be such in the ears of the good, 
 and no food could give nourishment." 
 
 " What art thou !" demanded the trembling 
 youth* 
 
 " Truth ! Doth not thy own heart teach 
 thee ?" was the answer. 
 
 " Alas but it did not !" replied Ipsistos. 
 
 " Of a surety it did, Ipsistos, from the first mo 
 ment when thou felt'st that thou could'st not love 
 the creature which thy people worship with a wild 
 and headlong idolatry. Thou could'st not think 
 her beautiful, because, in thy own heart, thou 
 beheld' st a yet lovelier image." 
 
 " And shall I see thee with mine eyes, oh, thou> 
 whom my soul worships," cried the youth, sink 
 ing on his knees, and lifting his hands together, as 
 if the object of his adoration stood even then un 
 veiled before him. 
 
 " Yea, thou mayst if thou so wishest it; but I 
 warn thee, Ipsistos, in the hour that thou regard- 
 est me with thy human eyes in that hour shalt 
 thou surely die. Art thou ready ?" 
 
 Prostrate in the dim night, the youth sunk down 
 
 in silence. But in silence he remained not long. 
 
 " Give me to behold thee," he cried aloud to 
 
 the voice "Give me to look upon the blessed 
 
 and beautiful features of that divine being who is 
 
IPSISTOS. 115 
 
 in my lifted heart, and death shall be welcome. 
 Gladly will I embrace it, for thy sake, sweetest and 
 loveliest of the dreams that have won me from 
 sleep, and made life, itself, a dream." 
 
 w Thou art bold, now, Ipsistos ; but when death 
 looks upon thee with his grim aspect, and claims 
 thee for his own " 
 
 " Even then will I be bold !" cried the undaunt 
 ed youth. 
 
 " When thou feel'st his steely grasp upon thy 
 shoulder !" 
 
 "I will laugh upon him I will defy him with 
 a song in thy praise." 
 
 " When he drags thee to the roaring blaze, and 
 the burning fagots crackle and hiss around 
 thee!" 
 
 "Ha ! must it, then, be so!" cried the youth, 
 shuddering, and covering his face with his hands. 
 " Perhaps !" said the voice. " Wilt thou not 
 then shrink from thy faith ? Wilt thou not then 
 forswear mef Wilt thou not deny that thou 
 hast seen my face, and hearkened to my counsel, 
 as thou dost now ? Death is terrible, Ipsistos !" 
 
 " I will not ! Though death be terrible, I will 
 not shrink from the danger I will not deny thee, 
 nor forget the faith which I have pledged thee, and 
 which I pledge thee here*" 
 
116 IPSISTOS. 
 
 " And yet 'twere pity, Ipsistos, that thy youth 
 should perish thus. Think of thy old grandsire." 
 
 " Ah !" 
 
 " Thy brothers and thy sisters." 
 
 " Alas ! they need me not. Did they love me, 
 and need me more, I were less bold, perchance, in 
 this encounter. My grandsire hath not many days 
 of life, and even were I gone from him, but little 
 were his loss therein. The promise which thou 
 makest me, moves me more than these fears and 
 losses which thou describest unto me. Give me to 
 look upon thy divine presence, and see the beau 
 ties which are there, and I am ready for the stake, 
 and for the cruel executioner. Tell me, shall I 
 not behold thee now ?" 
 
 " Not yet !" cried the voice. " Thou could'st 
 not see me now, even if thou would'st, and I were 
 willing to suffer thee. There are scales upon thine 
 eyes, which must first fall off. There is yet a fet 
 ter upon thy thought which must be broken ; and 
 thou hast learned lessons in thy mind, which must 
 be unlearned, ere thou can'st behold me. Yet 
 shall I not be utterly unseen of thee. Even now, 
 if thou lookest keenly, thou may'st behold a faint 
 shadow of my person beside thee, and, as thou 
 strivest to behold me and hearkenest to my voice, 
 my features shall grow clear unto thine eyes, thy 
 
IPSISTOS. 117 
 
 flesh to my touch, thy soul shall be filled with 
 my spirit. But I warn thee, in that time thou 
 diest. Thy danger begins with thy knowledge, 
 and in the moment of thy greatest victory, shalt 
 thou perish." 
 
 And the youth gazed as he was bidden, and a 
 shadowy form passed beside him, and the stars 
 yielded in their places, and all things swam be 
 fore his sense. When he looked again, the shadow 
 and the voice were gone. 
 
 VI. 
 
 " I bring thee food, my father," said Ipsistos; 
 and he placed before the aged man the viands 
 which had been given him by the high priest of 
 the temple. 
 
 "Ha! my son, be thou blessed among the 
 sons of men, as thou art blest and beloved by thy 
 sire. Whence got'st thou these meats this 
 bread, and the luscious grapes which thou puttest 
 before me." 
 
 " From Bermahdi." 
 
 " From Bermahdi ! Blessed be Bermahdi 
 blessed be the holy temple forever honored 
 the goddess therein," 
 
118 IPSISTOS. 
 
 And the aged man kneeled as he said these 
 words, and the young women and the sons kneeled 
 also, all but Ipsistos. 
 
 "How, my son, wherefore kneelest thou not 
 with us? would'st thou withhold thy blessings 
 and thy thanks ?" 
 
 " My thanks have been already given, my fa 
 ther. I have spoken with Bermahdi in the tem 
 ple." 
 
 " In the temple ! Ha ! have I been so bless 
 ed in my old age as to behold a son of mine who 
 hath had admittance to the temple of the goddess. 
 Let me look upon thee, let me kneel to thee, my 
 son, for of a truth the goddess hath greatly fa 
 vored thee." 
 
 " Kneel riot to me, look not upon me, father, 
 but eat of the meats sent thee by Bermahdi. I 
 am blind, and weak, and not worthy of thy regard." 
 
 " But thou saw'st the wondrous things of the 
 temple, my son, the giants which are there fet 
 tered beneath the feet of the goddess, the sa 
 cred serpent that speaks at her bidding, the holy 
 owl of counsel, and the ape, the ox, the emer 
 alds" 
 
 " I saw many things, my father, of which I 
 took little heed." 
 
 "Little heed, my son, little heed! What 
 
IPSiSTOS. 119 
 
 meanest thou ? Thou took'st little heed of what 
 thou saw'st in the temple ! What ! thou wast 
 frightened ; the wonders overcame thee ? Thou 
 wert blinded and astonished by the blaze. It was 
 enough, my son, to confound thee. It is my 
 wonder how thou saw'st any thing, how thou 
 cam'st alive from that glorious presence. But the 
 goddess strengthens whom she loves, and by these 
 tokens, Ipsistos, thou art beloved of the goddess. 
 Grant it be so, grant it be, then would my 
 gray hairs go down to the grave in peace." 
 
 But far other was the prayer in the heart of Ip 
 sistos, and he turned away in silence from the ad 
 miring gaze which the doting old man fixed upon 
 him. And the brothers and sisters murmured 
 among themselves, and marvelled much at the 
 favor of the goddess towards Ipsistos. And they 
 said, " Wherefore is this favor of Bermahdi ? 
 Have we not been the first ever to bring our offer 
 ings to the temple ? Though they were mean, yet 
 we brought of the best in our store ; and our pray 
 ers and songs were the loudest in the presence of 
 the goddess. And was not Ipsistos a loiterer by 
 the way-side, and when did he raise voice or song 
 in honor of the temple ? The goddess hath surely 
 meant, for one of us, the favor which Bermahdi 
 hath so blindly bestowed on him." 
 
120 IPSISTOS. 
 
 " And what said Bermabdi to thee, my son ?" 
 demanded the grandsire. 
 
 " He would have me in the service of the god 
 dess," replied Ipsistos. 
 
 "Ha! thou dost not say it !" cried the rejoi 
 cing father. 
 
 " He ! a servant in the temple !" cried the eld 
 est of the brothers. "Ha! ha! ha! This is 
 a folly, if not worse. Thou speak'st idly, Ipsis 
 tos, I trust thou dost not wilfully declare thy 
 falsehood." 
 
 " I speak the truth only, my brother/' meekly 
 replied Ipsistos. 
 
 " I will not believe it," cried the rest. 
 " Wherefore should they make thee a servant in 
 the temple. What hast thou, what art thou f 
 Thou art mad, Ipsistos. Thou art poor, and what 
 is thy father ? Made he not bricks for the city, 
 even for those who are now living and can declare 
 his craft ; and what is thy craft, but the same, Ip 
 sistos, which thou art only too idle to follow." 
 
 " True, true, Ipsistos, thou must surely err in 
 this," cried the old man, sorrowfully. "Where 
 fore should Bermahdi choose thee to serve in the 
 temple. Thy brothers speak but reason; and 
 yet, my children, Ipsistos hath never yet told me 
 other than the truth." 
 
IPSISTOS. 121 
 
 " And it is the truth only which I tell thee now, 
 my father. Bermahdi hath commanded me to 
 serve in the temple, in season to become a priest." 
 
 "A priest!" cried the elder brother in amaze 
 ment, 
 
 " A priest !" cried they all, in wonder at the 
 apparent madness or gross presumption of the 
 youth. 
 
 "Thou a priest!" said the elder brother. 
 " What should make thee a priest, when thy 
 awkward hands let fall the garlands ere they reach 
 the altar." 
 
 "Thou a priest!" exclaimed the eldest sister. 
 " How would thy long arms look in the holy 
 garments ? they would drag about thy heels like 
 a great mill-sack." 
 
 " Only to think," said the younger sister, the 
 favorite of Ipsistos, " only to think of making 
 thee a priest, Ipsistos, when I have ridden upon 
 thy shoulders a thousand times." 
 
 "Nay, flout not thy brother, my children ye 
 make me sad as I behold his sorrows. Flout him 
 not, though, in truth, my son, thy story is most 
 strange." 
 
 " Yet true, my father. Do not these fruits speak 
 for me . ? They are from the altar of the temple." 
 
 This could not be denied. The brothers and 
 
 VOL. i. 11 
 
; 
 
 122 IPSISTOS. 
 
 sisters of the youth had seen them carried to the 
 temple. And the old man marvelled much upon 
 the mystery; he could not yet be satisfied of his 
 son's truth, for when had the son of a maker of 
 brick, been called to such sacred office. Mean 
 while, a grievous suspicion of Ipsistos grew in 
 the hearts of his brethren. And they whispered 
 among themselves, and their evil thought came to 
 the ears of the father. 
 
 " He hath stolen these things from the altar of 
 the goddess. Of a truth he hath committed sacri- 
 lege." 
 
 And with these words the aged man dashed 
 from his lips the untasted viands, and his jaws 
 were distended with the horror of the thought. 
 
 " What hast thou done, Ipsistos ? My son, my 
 best beloved, wherefore hast thou done this 
 thing ?" 
 
 " They wrong me, my father, for, of a truth, I 
 am not guilty of this base crime. The fruits 
 were given to me, for thee, by the hands of Ber- 
 mahdi." 
 
 " Swear it, by the temple and the goddess ! 
 and I will believe thee," said the father. 
 
 " It will not then be a greater truth than it is 
 now, my father. Believe me, as I tell thee, but I 
 
IPSISTOS. 123 
 
 will not swear ;" and he rushed from the dwell 
 ing as he spoke these words. 
 
 " He is guilty !" cried the brothers with joy, 
 but the old man hung his head in shame. 
 
 " Alas !" he cried, " wherefore was I born to 
 this dishonor." 
 
 And the sons hurried away to the chief priest, 
 to declare the theft and to restore the consecrated 
 fruits ; but the old man lay upon his face at the 
 door of his habitation, and would not be com 
 forted. 
 
 VII. 
 
 " And ye say," said Bermahdi, to the brethren 
 of Ipsistos, " ye say that your brother is no true 
 servant of the goddess that he bows not in re 
 verence at her altars that he gives not his soul 
 with the fruits which he offers that he loves not 
 her high places, nor the holy priesthood that min 
 ister before her ?" 
 
 " Of a truth, we say it," replied the envious 
 brethren. 
 
 "Ye are wrong," answered to them the high 
 priest, " ye know not the heart of your brother. 
 
124 IPSISTOS. 
 
 What though he worship in another fashion from 
 ye, still is he a devout worshipper. I have seen 
 into his soul, my children ; it is no less pure than 
 yours. The goddess hath chosen him for her al 
 tars, and ye are no less honored in her choice than 
 is he. Hence was her gift to him, for thy grand- 
 sire, of the fruits and meats which he carried home 
 to your habitation. Do him no injustice, there 
 fore, by your ungentle thoughts, for truly do I be 
 lieve him honest. Yet, I would not, that ye should 
 hold me unnoteful of your zeal. Ye shall give it 
 employment. See that Ipsistos lacks not, nor falls 
 short, in his flow of service. If ye deem him lag 
 gard if ye notice any falling off in his outward 
 devotions, though it may import no loss of love 
 within yet bring me true report of his backslid- 
 ings, that I may counsel him providently, and tu 
 tor him unto the good work which is ready for his 
 hands. And, as ye have so fully shown your zeal 
 for the altars of the goddess, ye shall have like 
 share with your brother of the fruits therefrom. 
 Take ye, and eat, and bear ye home to your 
 grandsire, of the fruits which remain unconsumed. 
 And let this be a sign unto ye, that ye are all the 
 care of the goddess, and your house henceforward 
 shall be the abiding place of blessing and abun 
 dance. Go ye now remember well what I have 
 
IPSISTOS. 325 
 
 spoken in your ears touching the devotion of Ip- 
 sistos, and come to me and reveal in secret what 
 ye may misdeem of his thoughts and misdoing ; 
 for though I believe not that your brother is err 
 ing, yet the best of us falter in our walks of duty, 
 and the strongest sink at times under a weakness 
 of sinew which should make them sorrowful and 
 ashamed. Go now, and the blessing of the god 
 dess be upon ye." 
 
 And the brethren of Ipsistos went away, with 
 hearts of rejoicing and with hands of plenty ; and 
 they rejoiced not more because of the favor of the 
 goddess than of the charge which had been given 
 them to be watchful of the doings of their brother. 
 And in their hearts they abused the counsels of 
 the holy Bermahdi, for, whereas, he had given it 
 in charge to them to report on the backslidings of 
 Ipsistos that he might be providently led back into 
 the fold of the temple, and they took his words as 
 a direction to find evil in his wanderings, and to 
 prove the flaws in all his performances. And 
 those that Bermahdi had named as zealous for the 
 goddess, grew to be zealous spies upon the failings 
 of their brother ; and in their hearts they said 
 
 " Bermahdi will punish Ipsistos if he goes aside 
 
 from the path leading to the temple. He mean s 
 11* 
 
126 IPSISTOS. 
 
 not to counsel but to condemn, for is not the god 
 dess a jealous goddess, and does not her breath 
 destroy the offender, though it be a sin of his ig 
 norance only, and his first sin. Of a surety will 
 she destroy this brother, whose pride of heart lifts 
 him above us, and who, in a vain conceit of soul, 
 thinks to be wiser than his father. Well he 
 shall not be missed when Bermahdi calls for the 
 victim." 
 
 Thus communing, they returned to the dwelling 
 of their father, and their hearts were filled with 
 wrath when they found that their grandsire now 
 loved Ipsistos more than before, and took but lit 
 tle heed of the abundance of fruits which they had 
 brought with them from the temple. And he called 
 upon them to rejoice with him, and to implore bless 
 ings upon their brother, saying 
 
 " Verily, Ipsistos, my son, thou art my "best be 
 loved, and the favorite of the goddess. Join with 
 me, my children, and give praise to your brother; 
 for he hath cheered our hearth with the blessings 
 of heaven, and hath smoothed my passage to the 
 tomb. Blessed of the goddess, Ipsistos, be thou 
 also the blessed of thy father and thy brethren." 
 
 And the brothers murmured among themselves, 
 and, more than ever, they hated him by reason of 
 the exceeding love of their father. All hated him 
 
IPSISTOS 
 
 127 
 
 but the young maiden, his sister, the youngest of 
 all, whose name was Damaina ; and she flung her 
 self upon the neck of Ipsistos, and called him her 
 dear brother, and shed tears of joy and reverence 
 upon his neck. And the brothers turned from be 
 holding her, and they spake together apart, and 
 they asked of each other how best they should obey 
 the commands of Bermahdi, and seek out the back- 
 slidings of Ipsistos. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 But the youth heeded not their doings, nor ima 
 gined the feelings in their hearts. In his own a 
 sweet sadness prevailed, a shadow from his search 
 ing thought, that moved over strangest places, 
 and wandered into worlds far beyond his arm. 
 His life strayed afar from the accustomed paths of 
 his boyhood; for the voice was ever in his ears, 
 the voice whose tones were a perfect melody 
 which he might not resist, and they led him 
 away from the crowded places, and they tempted 
 him to fields which had ever been forbid. In the 
 presence of his brethren he had little comfort, and 
 his mood found no fellowship among those who 
 had once given him most sweet society. With 
 
128 IPSISTOS. 
 
 sad eyes, but without complaint, did his grandsire 
 behold the shadow that was upon the youth, and 
 the friends of his boyhood, and his young sister 
 Damaina, the best beloved of all, reproached him 
 loudly for his desertion. But Ipsistos only sighed 
 to them in return ; and he walked apart to hide 
 the tears which were in his eyes, though his heart 
 was softened only with a becoming joy. 
 
 " They chafe with me now," he said to himself 
 in musing, " but will they chafe with me when I 
 bring them to a sight of her whom my soul loveth ; 
 when they look upon the divine light of her eyes, 
 and feel the blessed tones of her voice sink like a 
 balm from heaven into their hearts." 
 
 And a holy pride filled his bosom as he thought 
 that he should bring those who loved him to such 
 superior enjoyment. And he followed the voice ; 
 and came to a mighty wood which was dusky with 
 gigantic forms, each having a double shadow. 
 And he wandered away among the shadows 'till 
 they grew like a bannered army around him, and 
 he laid himself down at their feet, and they hung 
 above him, and he thought unutterable things. 
 But the thoughts gave him pain at length, for they 
 came like pictures that pass rapidly in the uncer 
 tain light before the eye. And he failed to know 
 
IPSISTOS. 129 
 
 them or perceive their offices. Vainly did he 
 strive to fix them with his revolving mind; but 
 they fled from him, looking behind them as they 
 fled, and showing him glimpses of their beguiling 
 features. Through the dim mazes of his mind 
 he struggled to trace their flight, but others came 
 between, and so he was confounded ; and he pray 
 ed for counsel and help from the voice, and even 
 as he prayed he slept. 
 
 IX. 
 
 And the sleep of the youth was troubled, and 
 strange visions prevailed in his slumbers. A thou 
 sand streaming lights, that seemed half girt with a 
 drapery of cloud, danced around him in the clos 
 ing void. Then, as they departed, mighty sha 
 dows rose even from the earth at his feet, and they 
 floated away from before his sight, only to give 
 place to other and mightier shadows yet. These 
 came in sable and timed array, a gorgeous com 
 pany of trooping forms, having strange shapes 
 that yielded to the light ; and they bore solemn 
 banners that went trailing through the sky. Then, 
 a mightier form than all the rest, a shadowless 
 form, full of light that yet gave none forth, 
 
130 
 
 IPSISTOS. 
 
 came following after, and Ipsistos saw that it wore 
 a crown upon its head, and yet the face beneath 
 it was hidden from his straining gaze. From the 
 midst of the crown rose a broad tongue of flame, 
 that waved to and fro among the clouds by reason 
 of the rapid motion of the shadow. And the 
 shadow stood still when it hung above the spot 
 where the youth was sleeping, and the tongue of 
 fire which was upon the crown ceased to move in 
 the wind. And, even as he looked, Ipsistos be 
 held a sheet of flame pass out from the tongue, 
 and it fell from cloud to cloud, and it parted them 
 all, and it rested upon his own forehead. And at 
 the same moment the mighty shadows which had 
 hung around him, with brows of dusk and threat 
 ening, took to flight with a rushing noise, and the 
 youth could hear them scream while they flew, as 
 if pursued by a mighty terror. And a bright 
 light, like the bursting of a meteor, fell around 
 him, and he heard a voice like that which had 
 counselled him before, louder and more piercing 
 but not less musical, that stopt his ascending spi 
 rit, and riveted his wandering thought. 
 
 "Arise, Ipsistos, thou art called unto thy office. 
 Thy sleep is over. The light is around thee, 
 the promise of the day. Tarry not, but come." 
 
IPSISTOS. 131 
 
 And a shivering fell upon the sleeper as he 
 heard these warning accents, and marvelled at the 
 increased power of the voice : and his heart sunk 
 within him, not as he felt unwillingness to serve as 
 he was bidden, but because he despaired of doing 
 his service fitly, by reason of his inability. And 
 he said to hi mself as he awakened, 
 
 " Now, wherefore should I be chosen for this 
 mighty work ? Am I not the son of the brick- 
 maker, is not my extraction mean, and, of a 
 certainty, I have not been taught in the mysteries 
 of the college, nor in the divine languages of past 
 ages ? I am but mocked with this sweet delusion, 
 I do but cheat myself with the vanities of mine 
 own heart." 
 
 And the voice came to his ears again from 
 among the pale groves, that lay behind him in the 
 silence of their birth-hour. And the voice was 
 sweeter in his ears than ever, and it was strong 
 also. And it cheered him with words of encourage 
 ment. 
 
 " Wherefore should' st tjiou doubt of thy own 
 fitness for the work of her whom thou lovest ? I 
 tell thee, Ipsistos, that the servant is honored by 
 the service, and the work of truth takes no honor 
 from the proudest and the wealthiest, nay, not 
 even from the wisest in the land. Thy humility 
 
132 IPSISTOS. 
 
 is becoming in thee, and is the best wisdom thou 
 canst bring to my service. But thou must be bold 
 too, and confident, humble, because thou well 
 knowest how little is thy knowledge in respect to 
 truth, bold, as it is thy purpose to have know 
 ledge of the truth only. Come to me in this val 
 ley of shadow, build here thy altars ; and hith 
 er bring the constant offering of thy heart, not of 
 thy hands. Come." 
 
 And the voice melted away in his ears, and the 
 youth heard nothing but the murmuring of the 
 wind as it streamed upon its way among the 
 branches of the bending lindens. But he rose as 
 he was bidden, and went forward to the silent 
 dwelling of the shade from whence the sounds had 
 arisen. And, as his feet faltered, by reason of his 
 uncertainty, the voice whispered him on his true 
 path, and strengthened him to come. 
 
 X. 
 
 And Ipsistos sought the pale groves where the 
 voice dwelt, and he entered them with fear and 
 trembling. A mystery hung over them like that 
 which hangs above the mansion in the dreams 
 and darkness of the night. And a sound, like 
 
IPSISTOS. 133 
 
 that of a complaining water, that keeps a cease 
 less travel through all hours, and murmurs as it 
 has no rest, filled the groves ; and he heard no 
 other sound. And he prayed that he might heark 
 en to the voice again ; and it fell upon his ears 
 like a string smitten by the winds at a far distance ; 
 and the youth lay upon his face and trembled, for 
 the words of the voice had no meaning to his ears. 
 But while he lay upon the earth, and moaned in 
 his grief, he felt the breathing of a warm air 
 around him ; and when he looked up, lo ! a bright 
 eye was gazing down upon him from the leaves of 
 the tree above his head. And he saw nothing but 
 the eye ; but he straightway knew it for the eye of 
 the voice whose blessed sounds had sunk so deeply 
 into his heart ; and he murmured a fond prayer of 
 thanksgiving for the blessing which had been 
 vouchsafed him, even according to the promise of 
 the voice in his behalf. " Thou shalt not see me, 
 thou canst not see me, eveji if thou wouldst and 
 I were willing, until the scales have fallen from 
 thine eyes, and until thou hast unlearned much 
 which stands in the way of thy knowledge now ; 
 but" and with glad heart, did he remember the 
 promise of the voice " when thou givest up thy 
 whole soul in my service, then shall my features 
 come out before thee." And the youth prayed 
 VOL. i. 12 
 
134 IPSISTOS. 
 
 fervently for the consummation of the blessed pro 
 mise, for his heart was full of the beauty of the 
 eye which looked down upon him from the cloud, 
 and with the sweetness of that melodious voice 
 which had cheered him and led him on his right 
 ful path. And, even where he stood, did he build 
 an altar to the voice and the eye, and morning and 
 evening did he steal away from the press of the 
 city to offer up his homage to the divine spirit 
 which he so much loved. And the more bright 
 did the eye appear unto his eyes, and the more 
 musical the voice to his heart, so, in the like de 
 gree, did the countenance of the goddess worship 
 ped by his people, put on frowns. And he now 
 saw what he had not seen before, that in her face 
 were the shadows of many passions of evil which 
 belonged to men. Was not her eye fixed upon 
 him with hate, and did she not smile upon those 
 whom he well knew to be base and unworthy, as 
 they brought her rich offerings which the hand of 
 violence had despoiled from the weak, and the arts 
 of the cunning had inveigled and taken from the 
 confiding. " And can the goddess be true ?" ask 
 ed Ipsistos of himself, " whose judgments tally not 
 with justice. Shall she smile upon the wrong doer, 
 and share of the spoil which comes of the wrong. 
 Is mere power, which the wild colt hath in his 
 
IPSISTOS. 
 
 135 
 
 madness, a power to destroy, the sign of the 
 perfect goddess ? Shall my heart receive her 
 laws for truth, and grow fond of her smile, when 
 it approves of violence, and the sin that spoils and 
 strikes f" And the voice in his heart answered 
 " No;" and with free footsteps he hurried away 
 at evening to his lonely worship in the forest ; and 
 while he prayed, a halo of light gathered about 
 his brow, and, looking upward, he beheld the per 
 fect face of the benign and blessing spirit which 
 he sought. 
 
 XL 
 
 He saw the perfect face, and never did the vi 
 sion of his dreams, or the imaginings of his hopes, 
 seem half so divine or beautiful. The face looked 
 forth from a cloud, the edges of which were trans 
 parent with a golden light ; and as the lips opened 
 to speak, the words came forth in visible rays, 
 and the sounds fell upon his heart in melody, and 
 tlje air blossomed with odor. And the light from 
 her lips fell upon his own, and his soul was lifted 
 into the highest hope, when he heard the tones of 
 his own voice, and felt that they were like hers. 
 And he gave praises aloud to the divine spirit that 
 
136 IPSISTOS. 
 
 looked down upon him, and he spake in song, 
 even in the holy song of the prophets who had 
 perished for the truth. And the voice told him 
 that his song was sweet in her ears, and worthy of 
 her altars. Till the night cloud settled down upon 
 the pale groves where he worshipped, did Ipsistos 
 linger in the place which became so holy to his 
 heart ; and wings lifted his feet that night when 
 he returned to the humble dwelling of his father. 
 
 Wings lifted his feet, for he had a divine pur 
 pose in his heart. 
 
 XII. 
 
 " What !" he exclaimed, " shall my eyes only 
 look upon this gracious presence ? Shall this 
 blessing come to me only ? Is there none worthy 
 to share with me this joy, to partake with me 
 of this glorious truth, to live with me in the tri 
 umph which is promised me, and which must be 
 mine !" 
 
 And he mused thus by the hearth of his aged 
 grandsire, and he saw not that the old man slept 
 in his seat. Then came to him Damaina, the best 
 beloved of all his sisters, and she threw herself 
 around his neck, and she said to him, 
 
IPSISTOS. 137 
 
 "See, our grandsire sleepeth, Ipsistos, he will 
 fall from his chair, help me to bear him to his 
 couch." 
 
 And in his heart an instant voice cried, 
 
 " Thou art she who shall share with me this 
 blessing, even thou, my gentlest Damaina; for 
 thy heart is pure, and thy soul loveth the truth, 
 and thou hast reverence for the aged, and clamor- 
 est not in the high places with the presumption of 
 ignorance. Thou art worthy of this joy, Damai 
 na. It shall be thine." 
 
 And he lifted his sleeping grandsire to his couch 
 of straw, and that night he said nothing to the 
 young maiden. But when the gray dawn had 
 risen to his summits in the east, then did Ipsistos 
 come to the chamber of the maiden, and he cried 
 to her with a persuasive voice, and these were his 
 words, 
 
 " Come forth, Damaina, my beloved. I would 
 have thee go with me. Now, while the day is 
 young, and the hours are blessed with the vigor 
 of a night's repose, go forth with me into the forest. 
 I will show thee some precious flowers, and thine 
 eyes shall behold a loveliness which thou hast never 
 seen before !" 
 
 And the maiden came forth with the step that 
 12* 
 
138 IPSISTOS. 
 
 dances to the music of a gentle heart, and a youth 
 ful but pure fancy. 
 
 " Whither dost thou lead me, my brother . ? But 
 I care not whither. I know thy walks must be the 
 loveliest, for weir I know how much thou seekest 
 the, things which are so. Lead me, then, my bro 
 ther, 1 will joy in the flowers which give thee 
 joy ; and my heart shall drink of the same sweets 
 with thine." 
 
 And Ipsistos rejoiced greatly because of the 
 fondness of the maiden. 
 
 "If she will love the things which I love," he 
 mused to his own soul, " she will soon see the 
 glories which delight mine eye." 
 
 And he led her to the pale groves where he wor 
 shipped ; and he shewed her the simple temple 
 which his hands had built. And he bowed him 
 self before the temple, and he called upon the 
 maiden to do likewise. 
 
 " Wherefore, my brother ?" asked Damaina. 
 
 " It is the temple of the true goddess, my sister. 
 I have beheld her divine presence even among 
 these trees. She will be with me anon." 
 
 But the maiden trembled, and forebore to kneel 
 with her brother, by whose words her soul was 
 confounded. 
 
 " What altar is this for the goddess, what 
 
IPSISTOS. 139 
 
 true goddess is this of whom thoti speakest, Ip- 
 sistos?" 
 
 "She who is truth, whom the truth alone 
 makes beautiful, makes strong-, makes im 
 mortal.'* 
 
 " Ha ! my brother, but these words of thine 
 are strange to mine ears. Have we not long wor 
 shipped this goddess ? Stands not her white tem 
 ple upon the high hill that looks down upon the 
 city of our fathers." 
 
 " No ! her temple is in the white heart ! It is 
 with you and with me, my sister, if we blind not 
 ourselves wilfully, and refuse not to yield our 
 hearts to the truth. Stay, hear you not her 
 voice ?" 
 
 "I hear nothing, my brother, but a faint mur 
 mur as of a wind that sighs among the decaying 
 trees." 
 
 " It is her voice ! Kneel with me, dearest sister, 
 and the melody shall sink into your heart." 
 
 But Damaina did not then kneel by reason of 
 her great surprise. But Ipsistos knelt, and he 
 prayed with a passionate plea that the sweet voice 
 should fill the ears of the sister whom he loved. 
 And when the maiden heard his prayer, her heart 
 strove within her ; and she mused to herself, and 
 said, 
 
140 IPSISTOS. 
 
 " Surely this brother loves me, surely he is 
 wise and good ;" and even while he prayed she 
 sank down on the turf beside him, and her prayers 
 were joined with his. And the sound, which was 
 but a murmur in her ears before, now took a shape 
 of music, faint at first as the first plainings of 
 the harp troubled by the rising wind, but gather 
 ing into fulness at last, and swelling into expres 
 sion that will not be restrained. The heart of the 
 maiden trembled within her, but it was with a new 
 born joy, and not with any fear, that it trembled ; 
 and she began to love the voice with a love like 
 that of Ipsistos, though, to this time, she had no 
 knowledge of the blessed spirit which he had seen, 
 save by the gentle tones with which she had spo 
 ken to her ears. Yet, all the while that she pray 
 ed beside her brother, the face was looking down 
 upon them both, though the maiden beheld it not. 
 And the eyes of Ipsistos were opened, and he be 
 held the form of the true goddess, even as she had 
 promised that he should behold her. And she 
 smiled upon him, so that he felt the wings grow 
 ing upon his shoulders, but her words were grave 
 in his ears. 
 
 " Thy prayer is granted thee, Ipsistos, thou 
 hast seen me according to the desire of thy heart. 
 
IPSISTOS. 
 
 141 
 
 But thy hour is at hand, my son, thou hast but 
 little time to live." 
 
 And the youth bowed his face to the earth, and 
 his heart spoke in prayer. 
 
 " Art thou ready, Ipsistos ? The death-angel 
 will demand thee soon." 
 
 And the youth replied sadly, but without falter 
 ing, 
 
 " Joy of divine love, I am ready." 
 
 And the lovely image faded away in a sweet 
 smile from his sight, and the music died away 
 among the pale groves ; and the two, Ipsistos and 
 Damaina, rose from the place where they had 
 worshipped ; and their souls were lifted into thought, 
 so that neither spoke as they took their way, with 
 slow feet, back to the habitation of their father. 
 Yet the words of the voice to Ipsistos came not 
 to the ears of Damaina, neither did his lips reveal 
 to her the doom w r hich awaited him* 
 
 XIII. 
 
 And towards evening the two went again to the 
 place of their secret worship. But this time they 
 went not in secret. Eyes were upon them that re 
 garded not the object of their devotion, and hearts 
 
142 IPSISTOS. 
 
 were busy to find evil in the things which their 
 hearts desired. The brethren to whom Bermahdi 
 had given it in charge to heed the backslidings of 
 Ipsistos, followed with cautious footsteps upon his 
 path, and beheld the place where he worshipped. 
 And they took heed that he bent himself down be 
 fore the altar which his own hands had raised, and 
 that he prayed to other than the goddess of the 
 temple. And they hurried to the chief priest with 
 the tidings, and he gave them a rich bounty and 
 much praise for their zeal in his behalf. And he 
 bade them keep secret what they had seen, and 
 seek out more knowledge yet of the doings of Ip 
 sistos. And they were spies set upon their brother, 
 who told the chief priest of his outgoings, and fol 
 lowed him from place to place. But nothing did 
 they say of Damaina, the sweet maiden, who 
 bowed with her brother before the strange altar 
 of his worship. And nothing did Ipsistos know 
 of the doings of his brothers ; and he gave little 
 heed to his fears, that counselled him to be cautious 
 in what he did. For the spirit of truth which he 
 worshipped, worked within him, and a fire lighted 
 up his tongue. So that when the elders, and the 
 chiefs, and the rulers of the people, were gathered 
 together in the high places, he could not be kept 
 from speech, and he came to where they were as- 
 
IPSISTOS. 143 
 
 sembled ; and he penetrated into the high places, 
 even among the mighty men of the city, the fa 
 mous in arts and arms, the sages and the law 
 givers. And he cried to them with a loud voice, 
 and all fear had utterly gone out of his heart. And 
 he told them of the wonders which his eyes had 
 seen, and his ears had heard, even of the wonders 
 of that new goddess which had vouchsafed to smile 
 upon one so lowly. And he prayed that they 
 might give heed to his counsels, that they might 
 be blessed also by her countenance. And he would 
 have led them to his- place of worship, even to the 
 pale groves where he had raised his altar ; but 
 they mocked at his madness, and marvelled at the 
 fondness of the youth. 
 
 And they were astounded, and said, one to 
 another 
 
 " Who is he that speaks to us with so bold a 
 voice is he not one of the dust-carriers ? 
 wears he not of the blue which is the cloth of the 
 laborer ? is he not of the suburbs the son of 
 the brick-maker ?" 
 
 And they drave him out from among them, and 
 they shut the door against his face. 
 
144 IPSISTOS. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Then, Ipsistos, with a heart sore for his people, 
 went into the market-place, where were gathered 
 together many of his own condition, and to these 
 he cried aloud, and he prayed that they might give 
 ear to his tidings, and he promised to show them 
 strange things. And they were angered when 
 they beheld him on the eminence, and hearkened 
 to the words of his exhortations. And one said 
 
 " Is not this Ipsistos, the son of the brick-maker 
 and shall one of our own sort claim to be wiser 
 than we ?" 
 
 And another cried 
 
 " The mortar is even now upon his jacket, yet 
 would he talk for the magi." 
 
 " Where should he get this impudence," cried 
 a third, " to speak to us in words of counsel ? 
 Were we not boys together have we not often 
 played together on the same hill-side?" 
 
 " I know him well ; he liveth in our street he 
 is a fool that dreams let us stop his mouth." 
 
 Then came one from Bermahdi, the high priest, 
 who whispered in the ear of a huge man whose 
 
IPSISTOS. 145 
 
 anger was greater than the rest, and these were the 
 words of his speech 
 
 " Thrust him down, brother, he is insolent; 
 doth he pretend to be wiser than us ? thrust him 
 down, I tell you ; it shall be good if we do so." 
 
 Then said another who came from Bermahdi 
 
 " He hath reviled the goddess, whose white tem 
 ple is upon the hill thrust him down let the 
 grass grow in his mouth !" 
 
 " Stone him !" cried a third. 
 
 And the huge man, whose name was Brassid, 
 lifted a rock and flung it at Ipsistos, and the rock 
 smote the youth upon the ear and sorely wounded 
 him. And Ipsistos fled from the wrath of the mul 
 titude ; and he fled, not from fear but from sorrow, 
 as he beheld many among the multitude with whom 
 he had played even when a boy. And he had a 
 purpose in his flight, and he fled towards the pale 
 groves where he had raised the altar. And the 
 multitude pursued him, and they reviled him and 
 stoned him as he fled. But when the youth 
 reached the groves he paused in his flight, and he 
 turned full upon the multitude and his eye was 
 lifted, and he beheld the goddess whom he wor 
 shipped, looking down upon him from the cloud. 
 And the sweet voice spoke in his ears 
 
 " Ipsistos thy hour is come !" 
 VOL. i. 13 
 
146 
 
 IPSISTOS. 
 
 " Let the hour be blessed by thee, oh ! image 
 of divinest joy, and thy servant hath no fears. He 
 is ready." 
 
 And he laid his hands upon the horns of the al 
 tar, and he looked out upon the multitude. And 
 he began a song of thanksgiving and of praise, 
 though their voices were bitter with revilings. And 
 they rushed upon him where he stood, and they 
 tore him from the horns of the altar. With a 
 blind fury they set upon him, and the strong men 
 seized each of them a limb. And Brassid was the 
 man who bade them do violence upon him. And 
 they dragged the youth to and fro, and they rent 
 his limbs apart, and scattered them asunder even 
 while the life struggled in his bosom. And when 
 they had done the deed, they w r ere confounded, 
 and knew not what they had done. But Brassid, 
 the strong, who was of a mean craft, he laughed 
 to scorn the confusion of the multitude. And 
 with loud cries he rushed upon the altar which Ip- 
 sistos had raised with his own hands, and he would 
 have torn the altar from its place, but a sudden fear 
 seized upon him. For a bright eye looked out 
 upon him from the cloud, with a look of exceed 
 ing sorrow ; and the sounds of a sad voice came 
 upon his ears like a passing wind ; and these were 
 the words of the voice 
 
IPSISTOS. 147 
 
 " What! ye have slain your master he who 
 hath wrought for you ; and now would you destroy 
 his work ? Go ! but come to me at evening." 
 
 And none saw the eye, or heard the voice, but 
 Brassid, and, for a brief time, he was too greatly 
 astonished to speak. And the people would have 
 rushed upon the altar even as he had done, but he 
 stayed their fury : 
 
 " Enough ! Wherefore should we pull down 
 this pile which is but of wood, and the work of him 
 whom we have destroyed. Let it stand, in token 
 of his folly." 
 
 And he led the multitude back to the city, but 
 the voice went with him. 
 
 XV. 
 
 And the aged man, the grandsire of Ipsistos, 
 died that night by reason of his exceeding grief; 
 and the house of the brethren was the house of 
 mourning. But Damaina, the young sister of Ip 
 sistos, she stayed not to join with them in the song 
 of lamentation. Her heart was with Ipsistos, by 
 the lonely altar, among the pale groves of the 
 forest. And though it was a fear of the wrath of 
 the multitude that kept the brethren away from 
 
148 IPSJSTOS. 
 
 seeking his mangled remains to give them burial, 
 yet no such fear stayed the footsteps of Damaina. 
 And she went forth from the dwelling when no 
 one beheld her, and with a sorrow that was beyond 
 any dread of what the vengeance of man could do, 
 and she sought out the place of worship in the 
 forest, even among the dusky shadows of the night. 
 And lo ! when she came to the spot, a bright halo 
 was shining above the altar. And wherever a 
 limb of Ipsistos had fallen, there also hung a silver 
 light ; and by this token the maiden well knew that 
 the lovely goddess smiled upon the purpose which 
 was in her heart. And the maiden gathered up 
 the scattered remains, and she looked about for a 
 place to lay them ; and even while she looked, the 
 earth opened before her at the foot of the altar, 
 and a flame, like a flame from heaven, came down 
 and hung above the place. Then did Damaina 
 see the meaning of the goddess whom her brother 
 had loved, and she laid his bleeding limbs therein. 
 And the earth closed over them when she had 
 done, and she prayed with a fond heart above the 
 grave. And her prayer was accepted, and she 
 saw the bright face looking down upon her, even 
 as it had looked down upon Ipsistos ; and by this 
 sign did the maiden know that the blessing of truth 
 was growing perfected in her hearr. And while 
 
IPSiSTOS. 
 
 149 
 
 she kneeled before the altar she heard the footsteps 
 of one approaching, and she would have risen in 
 fear, and fled from the place, because of the night. 
 But the voice of the goddess commanded her to 
 stay and fear nothing. 
 
 " He who cometh," said the voice, " is a wor 
 shipper like thyself. He will do thee no manner 
 of harm." 
 
 And it was Brassid that came; he who led the 
 multitude against Ipsistos ; arid the maiden trem 
 bled when she beheld him in spite of the promise 
 of the goddess. But Brassid approached the al 
 tar with a trembling greater than her own. And 
 the strong man humbled himself with his face in 
 the dust ere he drew nigh unto the altar. He 
 had no strength in his limbs because of the guilt 
 in his heart, and he prayed like one who repenteth 
 and is full of sorrow for his misdeeds. Then Da- 
 maina, the maiden, had pity of his sufferings, even 
 though he smote her brother, and she prayed to 
 the goddess in his behalf. And he cried, 
 
 " Who art thou that pleadest for a wretch like 
 me. Know'st thou not that blood is on rny hands, 
 even the blood of the good and the innocent ?" 
 
 Then the maiden answered him, saying, 
 
 " I am the maiden Damaina, even she, the best 
 beloved sister of Ipsistos, whom thy hand hath 
 13* 
 
150 IPSISTOS. 
 
 slain ; but if thou weepest for that deed, shall I 
 not forgive thee, with a heart as tender of mercy 
 as thine own ? Bear witness, oh, beautiful goddess 
 whom my brother loved, bear witness that I for 
 give this unhappy man, even from my inmost 
 heart do I forgive him." 
 
 While thus she prayed before the altar, the pale 
 groves were lighted up with a sudden glory ; and 
 the two beheld the bright face, and the lovely fea 
 tures of the goddess, and her words came to them 
 in authority. And she bade the man, even Brassid 
 who slew Ipsistos, draw nigh to the altar, and 
 when he came as he was commanded, and bowed 
 by the side of Damaina, lo ! it was the form of 
 Ipsistos that stood between them, and the image 
 of the youth smiled sweetly upon him, even upon 
 Brassid his murderer, and his words were these in 
 his ears : 
 
 " Thou hast driven me from the work which 
 was assigned me, it is commanded that thou 
 labor to the fulfilment thereof. Go, therefore, and 
 the smile of the goddess be with thee ; in my 
 blood shalt thou find a cement which shall build a 
 stronger and a higher temple than the v, hite tem 
 ple upon the hill." 
 
 And Ipsistos spake nothing to Damaina ? but 
 
IPSISTOS. 151 
 
 he looked upon her with a smile of blessing and 
 love, and so passed from her sight. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 And from that hour a power seemed given unto 
 Brassid to work great things. And he went 
 among the people of his craft in the market place, 
 and he taught them, so that they hearkened with 
 reverence to his voice. And the people came to 
 hear him from all quarters of the city, and after 
 hearing him they went away sad and thoughtful. 
 Day by day, and night by night, without weari 
 ness and without fear, did Brassid teach along the 
 highways, of the wonders which he had seen, and 
 the greater wonders which he had heard, and a 
 power was given to him of the goddess, so thai 
 whoso came to hear, though it were in scorn only, 
 remained to do homage to the wondrous truths 
 which he brought, and followed him, by reason of 
 this homage, whithersoever he went. And the 
 numbers increased daily of those who followed him. 
 Then did the chief men of the city hold counsel 
 with the priests of the temple upon the hill, how 
 best to overcome this preacher of strange doc 
 trines. And they sent persons against them with 
 
152 IPSISTOS, 
 
 authority to seize and punish. But the multitude 
 rose up in defence of Brassid, even as they had 
 risen against Ipsistos at his summons, and they 
 pelted the servants of the temple with stones, and 
 they ran furiously upon the temple. And they 
 dragged the goddess from her throne, and they 
 drove forth the priests from within it. And Bras 
 sid bade them smite the head from the false god 
 dess, and drag her carcass in the dust. And they 
 tore the white temple asunder, so that one stone 
 stood not up against another. And when this had 
 been done, then did Brassid bid them bring the 
 white marble of the temple to the pale groves 
 where Ipsistos had built his altar, and they raised 
 a temple loftier than that upon the hill, and they 
 raised it even over the grave of Ipsistos whom they 
 had slain. And in the temple over against the al 
 tar there descended a divine form from heaven, 
 but over the face thereof hung a bright and shi 
 ning veil ; and on the veil was written these 
 words : 
 
 " To those, only, who, like Ipsistos, love me ere 
 yet they have known me, my veil shall be uplifted." 
 
 And the people built a high monument to the 
 memory of Ipsistos with the huge stones with 
 which they had slain him ; and Brassid wrote the 
 
IPSISTOS. 153 
 
 inscription upon the monument, which was as fol 
 lows : 
 
 " IPSISTOS ! 
 we, who hated the truth, slew him 
 
 because he loved it : 
 
 May the truth teach us better knowledge 
 of our friends, so that we cut not off our own 
 
 heads !" 
 
 But Damaina, the sister of Ipsistos, beheld no 
 thing of these things. They saw her not after 
 that hour when the goddess had given it in charge 
 to Brassid to complete the labor of Ipsistos. And 
 they raised for her a tomb beside that of her bro 
 ther, but left open the door thereof, as thinking 
 she might yet come. But to this day she came 
 not. 
 
THE STAR BRETHREN. 
 
THE STAR BRETHREN. 
 
 I. 
 
 " I WILL come to thee, at midnight, dear Anas- 
 tasia with life only will I fail thee." 
 
 These were the parting words of the enamored 
 boy ; and the tones of his voice, not less than the 
 language which he used, spoke for his deep devo 
 tion. 
 
 " At midnight, dear Albert," was the reply. 
 
 " I live not till then !" said the youth, passion 
 ately; " and, if thou meet me not, Anastasia if 
 thou fail me " 
 
 "Fear me not !" was the low but emphatic in 
 terruption of the maiden. " In life or death, dear 
 Albert, I am only thine. I will not fail thee." 
 
 The leaves of the grove parted, and by the pale 
 glimmer of evening the two might be seen taking 
 their farewell and fond embrace. She, a tall and 
 
 VOL. i. 14 
 
158 THE STAR BRETHREN. 
 
 slender maiden, lovely as the light, and softer than 
 the new born zephyr ; and he, manly and strong, 
 yet young having a frame of the most perfect 
 symmetry, and a face full of beauty and expres 
 sion. A fond, sweet kiss, a parting word and 
 sigh, an earnest and longing glance of rapture 
 and the lovers separated. 
 
 They had not, however, been unseen. The 
 eyes of jealousy were upon them, and the gloomy 
 and fierce Wallenberg a suitor for the hand of 
 the damsel had watched them throughout the 
 interview. 
 
 " At midnight !" he muttered, as he saw the 
 youth depart. " It is well I will be there also." 
 And he shook his hand after the departing form of 
 Albert, and his brow was covered with a cloudy 
 anger, which sufficiently denoted the terrible 
 thoughts of his mind, and the malignant feelings 
 whicli were working in his heart. Yet Wallen 
 berg was a nobleman of high birth, and renowned 
 for deed of valor and great achievement. He 
 was not less so, for his great family estate and wide 
 possessions. These had commended him to the 
 family of Anastasia D'Arlemont, with which he 
 was connected. They all knew him for a coarse, 
 rude, rough-handed nobleman ; yet, as the terrors 
 of his claws were calmed in gold, he was thought 
 
THE STAR BRETHREN. 159 
 
 no unfitting match for the gentle and shrinking 
 Anastasia. But she trembled at his approach, and 
 it was with a pang like death that she learned how 
 far his suit had met with the approbation of her 
 parents. Her attachment to Albert was unknown 
 to them, and to have made it known, would, she 
 well knew, avail her nothing. The passionate 
 persuasions of her sanguine lover relieved her 
 from the difficulty before her. He had persuaded 
 her that her only hope was in flight in flight 
 with him. There was nothing so terrible in that. 
 Would she not have died for him ? Could she live 
 without him ; and what was life, with such a bear 
 as Count Wallenberg. Albert found but little 
 difficulty in convincing her reason, through the 
 medium of her heart the medium through which 
 young damsels are most usually convinced. At 
 midnight, then, she was to fly with him. Such 
 were the resolves of the lovers ; but Wallenberg 
 resolved otherwise. 
 
 Albert of Holstein was even then a student in 
 one of the German universities of the time, the 
 name of which is unnecessary to this narrative. 
 He was, at the period of which we write, just en 
 tering his eighteenth year. Until his sixteenth, he 
 had been under the guardianship of a good, but 
 weak and misjudging mother. While yet an in 
 
160 THE STAR BRETHREN. 
 
 fant, he had lost his father, who had fallen in a do 
 mestic feud with some rival baron, occasioned by 
 a difference of opinion on some matter of great 
 importance or of no importance at all, which had 
 suggested itself to them for discussion, while over 
 their cups. The son Albert but fora mind 
 and temper naturally excellent, would have been 
 utterly ruined by the various and misconceived in 
 dulgences of his surviving parent. Nature, how 
 ever, who is not often strong enough for so trying 
 a toil, resisted the mother long enough to save the 
 son from utter ruination ; and, when sixteen years 
 of age, he was ready to go to college. After the 
 usual preparation, he was admitted into one of the 
 leading universities, where he soon had occasion to 
 test for himself the propriety of that course to 
 which he had so imprudently been subjected. It 
 is not our object, however, to analyze or dwell 
 upon the impressions of his mind under the new 
 changes of his condition affecting, as they must 
 have done, the whole structure of his early habits, 
 and pruning and converting, as it were, the dead 
 branches of excess into a new and fresh capacity 
 of life. It is enough to say that he rapidly threw 
 aside the follies of habit and of thought which the 
 error of his mother had engendered. The resour 
 ces of his own mind a case not very common 
 
THE STAR BRETHREN. 161 
 
 enabled him to contend with, successfully, and 
 finally to counteract, the thousand mistakes of a 
 foolishly fond parent, and a cringing crowd of do 
 mestic parasites. 
 
 II. 
 
 The night came a sweet night of many and 
 bright stars a night for secret, and sacred, and 
 stolen love. But it was not a night for love only. 
 It was a night for hate, also, for jealousy and 
 murder. There was one who watched for the 
 coming of Albert as anxiously as did the gentle 
 Anastasia ; but it was with not such sweet and fond 
 regard as that which filled her devoted bosom. 
 With the darkness he stole into the silent groves 
 which had been assigned for the meeting, and 
 there waited for the hour and the victim. He had 
 no scruples at any crime his hand had been often 
 imbrued in blood, which was not always shed in 
 battle and he was resolved, at every hazard, to 
 remove his rival. He had seen enough in the 
 brief interview which he had witnessed, to feel that, 
 however secure he might be of the preference of 
 the family, he was very far from the hope of a like 
 14* 
 
162 THE STAR BRETHREN. 
 
 preference in the estimation of the maiden, while 
 Albert lived. It was the natural error of a wretch 
 so coarse as Wallenberg, to imagine that he would 
 be more successful when he should have slain the 
 youth. The poor maiden despised him ; though, as 
 he was favored by her parents, she dared not give 
 open expression to her disapprobation and scorn. 
 She was compelled to submit in silence which 
 seemed satisfied. Perhaps, she would not have 
 so readily consented to fly with Albert, but for the 
 tyranny of the union they were about to force 
 upon her. The necessity of the case would seem 
 to justify her fatal resolution. The suit of Albert 
 had been denied, and the language of denial by 
 her parents had been also that of contumely and 
 reproach. There was no hope for her but in flight ; 
 and the preparations of the lovers were secret to 
 all but Wallenberg. As we have seen, his jealous 
 eyes had watched them his keen ears noted their 
 arrangements, and now, his keener knife was ready 
 to prevent them. This sort of remedy was charac 
 teristic of the time. The strong arm carried out 
 the strong word, and justice, which is now a mat 
 ter of calculation and cunning, was then a thing of 
 muscle and brutality. The murderer lurked in 
 the shadow of the groves, and the lover, impatient 
 for his prize, stole hurriedly through their reces- 
 
THE STAR BRETHREN. 163 
 
 ses. His heart was elate with its hope, and his 
 footstep was that of joy. He had almost reached 
 the place assigned for the meeting a close bower 
 of sweet shrubs in the centre of the garden. But 
 the foe and fate lay in his path, and he was not 
 permitted to reach it. He heard the rustling of 
 the bushes. 
 
 "Dearest, I am here," he murmured at the 
 sound. 
 
 " And I am here !" was the fierce word of 
 Wallenberg, as he plunged the cruel weapon into 
 the bosom of the youth; " this, boy, for thy pre 
 sumption." 
 
 The only word uttered by the unhappy lover, 
 was the name of his mistress ; and he lay in the 
 sleep of death at the feet of his murderer. Wal 
 lenberg stole away in silence when his felon deed 
 was done ; satisfied that his own hope grew strong 
 in the annihilation of that of his rival. He knew 
 not the heart of Anastasia. 
 
 III. 
 
 How slowly passed the hours to the maiden, 
 while she waited for the coming of the youth. 
 From the lattice, long and anxiously had she 
 
164 THE STAR BRETHREN. 
 
 looked forth, listening for the dear accents of his 
 whispering voice ; and when the clock tolled forth 
 the full hour of midnight, impatient to behold him, 
 she stole hurriedly down into the garden, treading 
 its flowery mazes, but seeking him every where in 
 vain. Her heart already began to fill with those 
 thousand mysterious fears, and apprehensive fore 
 bodings, which are natural enough to a German 
 maiden, when she fancied she heard a sigh. She 
 followed the sound, and something seemed to float 
 in the air before her. A gentle breath moved the 
 leaves overhead, though elsewhere a universal 
 stillness prevailed. The sigh was repeated the 
 breathing zephyr still guided her from above, and 
 when it ceased to move, the lifeless body of her 
 lover lay at her feet. With a single shriek, 
 scarcely less lifeless than himself, she sank down 
 beside him, and was only aroused to the conscious 
 ness of a greater misery by a terrible voice which 
 sounded in her ears. 
 
 " Away with her !" cried the furious father, 
 "take her home remove her from my sight." 
 
 She clung to the inanimate form, which could 
 no longer return her fond caresses. 
 
 " You shall not no ! no ! I will not leave him. 
 I will cling to him to the last/' 
 
 But what could her strength avail against that 
 
THE STAR BRETHREN. 165 
 
 of the brutal retainers, assisted by the bloody Wal 
 lenberg. They tore her from the corpse with 
 unmeasured violence. 
 
 " He is yet warm !" shrieked the maiden "he 
 is not dead I may yet save him he will hear 
 my voice. Oh ! leave me leave me with him, I 
 implore you." 
 
 " Home with her, I say," were the words of the 
 implacable father, which silenced her entreaties. 
 She shuddered to behold the malignant and savage 
 exultation which were impressed upon his features 
 as he spoke. With the sight, a fearful fancy 
 gathered in her brain. She suspected him her 
 own father of the cruel crime, and this suspi 
 cion increased her misery. The true assassin, 
 looking on the while, remained unknown. In 
 quiry in a little time, having labored without suc 
 cess to find the criminal, forbore its task ; and if, 
 at any moment, public suspicion rested any where 
 in particular, the object was one quite too high 
 for the arm of public justice. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Meanwhile, the corpse of Albert was removed 
 to his former lodgings, and from thence to the 
 
166 THE STAR BRETHREN. 
 
 family vault in the country. But a strange report 
 none knew whence came to the ears of Anas- 
 tasia. It was whispered that Albert of Holstein 
 was still alive. The story went that a skilful phy 
 sician and careful hands had kept the spark of 
 life in his bosom, and that hopes were entertained 
 of his final recovery. But these hopes, though 
 they inspired new ones in the heart of Anastasia, 
 were for a long time illusive, and, perhaps, injuri 
 ous, They kept her mind in a state of feverish 
 inquietude, and prolonged, if they did not increase, 
 the sickness at her heart. 
 
 But little time was allowed her, however, for 
 idle meditation upon fancies such as these. Count 
 Wallenberg pressed his suit, and would not be de 
 nied. In vain did the maiden plead for time 
 for a brief indulgence to her sorrows. At that 
 early period in the history of civilization, parents 
 did not often trouble themselves to give ear to the 
 tastes and desires of their daughters. They did 
 not, in the present instance ; but with the most cruel 
 disregard to her complaints and prayers, they de 
 creed her to the great bear, her wealthy lover. 
 They doomed her to the sacrifice, and the day was 
 appointed for placing the victim before the altar. 
 We may not speak of the anguish of Anastasia on 
 being instructed to prepare for the nuptials with 
 
THE STAR BRETHREN. 167 
 
 "Wallenberg. She felt that it would be far easier 
 to die. But, hopeless of any aid from without, 
 and having no succor or show of mercy from 
 within, she prepared to resign herself without 
 struggling to the fate which now seemed inevita 
 ble. 
 
 It was only a few weeks after the death of her 
 lover, when this scarcely less cruel doom was ut 
 tered in her hearing. She fled to her chamber, 
 desperate and desolate. She knew not where to 
 turn for consolation or counsel. It was midnight. 
 She threw herself down before her window, and 
 wished and prayed for death. The very associa 
 tions of memory, so full of pleasure and joy as the 
 reality had been, now brought her infinite pain. 
 They told her what she had enjoyed, but they also 
 told her what she had lost, and lost for ever. She 
 felt that it would be sweet then to lapse away into 
 forgetfulness, and, fleeing from the pressure and 
 the care of life, rejoin her departed lover in the 
 dwellings of the blessed. 
 
 Musing thus, and hopeless of all things and 
 thoughts, she starts and trembles. A sudden ter 
 ror is upon her. Her blood freezes in her veins 
 her very heart grows cold. What is it that 
 she hears what is it that rises up before her 
 sight f 
 
168 THE STAR BRETHREN. 
 
 Well may she start and tremble. The faint and 
 exquisite tones of music which now seek her ears 
 are such as she had long been accustomed to hear 
 from the lips of Albert. The words are those of 
 a familiar song, and the tones cannot be mistaken. 
 They breathe of the same sweet passion they 
 speak the same blessed language. It is Albert's 
 voice and music, and Albert must be at hand. 
 Breathlessly, and half fainting, she lingered and 
 listened to the strains. She did not dare to move 
 indeed she could not while she heard them. 
 But soon they melted away in distance, and the 
 winds only remained sighing mournfully through 
 the lattice. Her frame seemed fastened frozen 
 to the ground ; and her terror, becoming insup 
 portable at length, with a shriek she rushed to the 
 innermost recesses of her chamber, and burying 
 her head in the thick drapery of the couch, strove, 
 in this way, to fly and hide from those strange and 
 terrible surmises which were fast gathering in her 
 soul. 
 
 But the strange and startling minstrelsy pur 
 sued her even there, and its fascinations proved 
 too powerful for her mind to resist. She braved 
 all the terrors of her imagination, in the hope 
 again to hear it. With the approach of the next 
 midnight she again sought the lattice, and listened 
 
THE STAR BRETHREN. 169 
 
 impatiently for the returning strains. They came 
 at last, obedient to her senses. The same sweet, 
 mysterious air, rose swelling upon the night wind, 
 and was borne, as it were, directly to the window 
 where she sat. The tones were full of the warm 
 est melancholy faint, but full strange, but 
 sweet mysterious and vague, but as familiar as 
 if they had all been learned in childhood. She 
 was no longer terrified ; and, obeying' an impulse 
 which she now found irresistible, and having no 
 fears, she gently undid the lattice, and looked out 
 with far-searching eyes among the trees of the gar 
 den. Nor did she look in vain. She beheld a 
 form retreating away among the thick crowding 
 trees, so nearly resembling that of her departed 
 lover, that she involuntarily uttered his name. 
 She was answered by a sigh so mournful, so 
 deep, that it seemed to reproach her for the indif 
 ference of her grief for her consenting to the 
 bridal sacrifice which had been decreed by her 
 father. Her sorrows burst forth afresh with this 
 thought, and she was convulsed by her emotions. 
 She lost all guidance of her reason at that mo 
 ment, and called upon Albert deliriously. 
 
 Had her voice indeed so much power ? Had 
 the deity spoken from her lips, and was it in truth 
 her lover who now stood before her f Fair and 
 
 VOL. i. 15 
 
170 THE STAR BRETHREN. 
 
 manly as when at first she had beheld him, she 
 beheld him now. He looked even lovelier and 
 nobler than ever. No trace of his hurts was per 
 ceptible. He was alive, and utterly uninjured. 
 She grew faint as she surveyed him. She trem 
 bled with a feeling of awe, lest, at that moment, she 
 should be standing in the presence of a spectre. 
 His eyes, though clear and intelligent as ever, 
 were sad, and full of a solemn expression. They 
 looked the divinity of wo such an expression as 
 might well belong to afallen and defeated deity. A 
 mingled feeling of love and adoration, which she 
 stove vainly to restrain, filled and inflamed her 
 heart. How gentle were all his tones how sooth 
 ing his words how tender their utterance. How 
 sweetly did he assure her of his existence of his 
 continued love for her, even while that existence 
 was doubtful. He had been in deep extremity 
 from his wounds on the verge of dissolution, 
 from which he had been saved only by the marvel 
 lous skill of his physician. The moment of his 
 recovery brought him once more to the feet of her 
 without whom the skill which had saved him would 
 have been rejected. He had risked all danger 
 once more to see her to hear from her lips that 
 she was not lost to him yet that she would be 
 none other than his. How easy to give that assu- 
 
THE STAR BRETHREN. 171 
 
 ranee, how sweet to receive it. Long did they 
 linger in the sacred and silent garden, in fond com 
 munion, with no watcher but the stars, and no 
 thought but of that trae and blessing love which 
 they seemed to smile upon and sanction. 
 
 But the difficulty of escape from the approach 
 ing bridal with Wallenberg distracted the maiden, 
 in the midst of all her new-born hopes and plea 
 sures. She had poured into her lover's bosom all 
 the sorrows which had troubled hers. His com 
 posure satisfied and reassured her. 
 
 " Fear nothing," he said, " I shall not lose you. 
 I will save you from this hated bridal. You shall 
 be mine, Anastasia mine only, believe me." 
 
 " I do 1 do," she repeated, fervently. 
 
 " Be ready, then, as I shall counsel you, and 
 fear nothing." 
 
 He gave her directions for meeting him, made 
 his own preparations for flight, and with mutual 
 impatience they waited the approaching and ap 
 pointed evening. 
 
 It came the hour which had been designated 
 for the marriage of Wallenberg. The chapel of 
 D'Arlemont Castle was pompously illuminated 
 the company were already assembling in crowds, 
 and every thing was gay comparison, amusing 
 scandal, and good-humored clamor. There 
 
172 THE STAR BRETHREN. 
 
 were aunts and uncles, cousins and friends the 
 whole world of various and motley elements which 
 such an occasion so commonly brings together. 
 At the head of a loug train of connexions and de 
 pendants came the bridegroom, as full of his own 
 consequence as of impatience for the ceremony. 
 The hour was dawing nigh for the sacrifice -j- but 
 a voice, under the lattice of Anastasia, said to her 
 in a whisper, which, though soft, yet reached her 
 ears 
 
 " Come come to me, beloved I await thee, 
 Anastasia !" 
 
 A mournful but a sweet voice was his a voice 
 of melody and love, and she answered it in 
 like language "1 come." 
 
 She stole away by a private passage into the 
 garden. She joined her lover, and they fled from 
 the boundaries of her father's domain, long before 
 the assembled company had dreamed of her ab 
 sence. 
 
 V. 
 
 "WHERE is she? where is Anastasia, my 
 bride? why comes she not?" was the demand 
 of Wallenberg. ,* 
 
THE STAR BRETHREN. 173 
 
 Where was she, indeed ] The hour had elapsed 
 the moment was past why came she not, in 
 glittering robes, heading, in kindred gladness, the 
 garlanded group of damsels that had gathered to 
 wait upon her ? The castle was soon in commo 
 tion, and a strange anxiety filled every counte 
 nance. The bridal chamber was empty the 
 maiden was not to be found. The castle was 
 searched from turret-top to donjon, but in vain. 
 They were compelled to seek her elsewhere. They 
 hunted through grounds and gardens, dispersing 
 every-where, but without success. They next 
 sought the forests. As they penetrated the thick 
 woods, the sky suddenly became dark and over 
 cast vivid flashes of lightning added to, while 
 illuminating and making perceptible, the gloom. 
 A storm of frightful energy passed over the wood, 
 prostrating every thing before it, and subsiding 
 with equal suddenness. The sky became instant 
 ly clear, and the moon shone forth in purity, un 
 conscious of a cloud. The firmament had not a 
 speck. The bewildered groups proceeded in their 
 search. A soft and gentle strain of melody seem 
 ed to imbody itself with the winds. They follow 
 ed the sounds into a dark and gloomy enclosure 
 of high overarching trees, thickly fenced in with 
 knotted vines and brushwood. The thunderbolt 
 
 15* 
 
174 THE STAR BRETHREN. 
 
 had been there, and it was scorched and blackened. 
 They advanced the music still leading them 
 onward until, in a small recess, they found in 
 dubitable tokens of the maiden, in the half-con 
 sumed remnants of her hat and shawl. They now 
 beheld her destiny. They saw that she had been 
 spirited away by the fiend. She had become the 
 victim of the demon. He had triumphed in the 
 garb of the early and lost lover and she had 
 fallen a victim, in a moment of sad credulity, to 
 the arts of a designing and an evil angel. They 
 continued the pursuit no longer. She was lost to 
 them for ever but still not lost. Amid the horrors 
 of the tempest she pursued her way with her lover. 
 
 " Oh, save me, Albert what a dreadful storm !" 
 was her pleading and terrified address, as they hur 
 ried on through the devious paths of the forest. 
 The violence of the storm filled her heart with ap 
 prehensions. She knew not the fearful extent of 
 her security. 
 
 " T will fear not, dearest there is no dan- 
 ger." 
 
 " It pursues us," she cried, with increasing ter 
 ror. 
 
 " It will not harm us it will soon be over," 
 was his assurance. 
 
 A stream of ground lightning, like a wave of 
 
THE STAR BRETHREN. 175 
 
 the sea, rushed up the hill at that moment, and fol 
 lowed close upon their footsteps. The maiden 
 darted forward in desperation Albert seized her 
 in his arms, and throwing aside her hat and shawl, 
 which encumbered him, he bore her away like an 
 infant. He bore her to the edge of the forest, 
 and laid her down upon the greensward in safety. 
 
 VI. 
 
 WHEN she recovered from the faintness which 
 had overcome her, the storm had passed away 
 the night was beautifully clear. The moon had 
 risen, and the gray forests looked sweet and hal 
 lowed in her light. A gentle strain of music rose 
 upon the distant breeze, and still more contributed 
 to the soft loveliness and languor of the scene. 
 
 The bright eyes of Albert looked down into the 
 dewy orbs of Anastasia, and she thought she 
 never before had seen them look so beautiful. His 
 arm supported her, and she fancied its pressure had 
 never been so fond before. She was blest in that 
 embrace and fear, and sorrow, and fatigue, de 
 parted in the consciousness that she then felt of 
 having all that she lived for, and all that before 
 had been denied her love. 
 
176 THE STAR BRETHREN. 
 
 " We must proceed, my Anastasia our dwell 
 ing is not far we can reach it by the dawn, 
 Our steeds are now in waiting." 
 
 While the moon was yet shining, they stood 
 upon the rocky cliffs which overhung a beautiful 
 river. A proud and lonely castle stood in sight 
 upon the highest crag. The stream glided below 
 it with a pleasant freshness, and rippling away 
 among the shelving rocks, in the placid moonlight, 
 it seemed to the" eyes of the happy Anastasia a 
 home of faery a very heaven for the heart of 
 truest love. 
 
 VII. 
 
 THE bird sings falsely who sings only of sun 
 shine. The song must sometimes speak of clouds. 
 Happy were the two happy in the last degree 
 in their mutual loves and constant intercourse. 
 Albert was all that Anastasia could desire in a 
 lover he was fond he was gentle. His lan 
 guage was kind, always and his very whispers 
 were musical. But he was melancholy he was 
 always sad even when he was most happy. He 
 seemed never to forget the mutability of happi 
 ness. Yet his sadness was never gloom, nor did 
 
THE STAR BRETHREN. 177 
 
 he at any time complain. Still, the very fact that 
 he asked for no sympathy, and that she knew not 
 how to address herself for his relief these still 
 made her unhappy. There was yet another cause 
 of disquiet to the fond Anastasia. Their dwell 
 ing was so lonesome. True, Albert seldom left 
 her, and there were a thousand pleasant amuse 
 ments which he had provided ; but her heart was 
 too human for such a solitude ; and the very winds 
 that mourned in music through the rocky crevices, 
 and the gentle river that rippled sweetly at the 
 castle's base, and the sweet birds that carolled in 
 the groves, and the stars that sang together har 
 moniously in their courses, all seemed to tell her 
 of the many bright eyes, and cheerful hearts and 
 voices, with which she had been accustomed to 
 mingle. These thoughts gave her some occa 
 sional annoyances, but a sweet word from Albert 
 consoled her. 
 
 "For a time, dearest, we must keep in solitude, 
 to avoid the search which your father will doubt 
 lessly institute after you. We must keep in secret 
 we must avoid all exposure and here they 
 will not be very apt 1o seek us." 
 
 She was satisfied she seemed to be satisfied, 
 at least and that was something. 
 
178 THE STAR BRETHREN. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 One night they walked along the edge of the 
 precipice, and looked abroad upon the night and 
 river. The stars were shining in profusion, and 
 not a breath murmured but harmoniously. 
 
 " Tell me," he said to her, in a sad but gentle 
 tone, " tell me, Anastasia do you not tire of 
 our love, and the solitude to which it dooms you ?" 
 
 " Not of our love, oh, no ! dearest Albert, but 
 sometimes I feel so lonesome." 
 
 " Yet are you not alone am I not with you 
 always ? With you, dearest, I have no such feel 
 ing. You are all to me, Anastasia, and I feel no 
 want when you are absent. Ah ! feel like me, I 
 implore you, my beloved. When you repine 
 about your solitude, I mourn I am unhappy." 
 
 "Be not unhappy, Albert I will repine no 
 longer. I feel that you are all to me, and where 
 fore should I repine for any change that may lose 
 me all ?" 
 
 " Wherefore !" he replied seizing her wrist 
 with a strong gripe as he pronounced the word 
 after her, with a singular energy. " Wherefore ! 
 
THE STAR BRETHREN. 179 
 
 indeed ? Repine not, dearest, or you may indeed 
 lose all !" 
 
 " What mean you, Albert ?" she demanded, 
 with some apprehension. 
 
 " Look !" he exclaimed ; and she beheld, even 
 as he pointed, where a bright star shot away from 
 its sphere in erratic flight, bearing along with it a 
 momentary train of glory, which, as it belonged 
 to, and came from, the sphere alone, was soon ex 
 tinguished upon leaving it. 
 
 " Look," he cried, " look at that star ! Be 
 not weary of thy place of watch and quiet, lest 
 thou become extinguished also. Thy sphere and 
 temple are in one heart thou canst not inhabit 
 many." 
 
 He paused, and his eye seemed to trace afar 
 upon its flight the pathway of the vanished star. 
 She looked at him with anxious apprehension. 
 His eye seemed rapt in sorrowful contemplation, 
 and though he shed no tear, the expression was 
 that of a sublime and subdued sadness. She 
 threw her arm tenderly around his neck, and she 
 felt that a thrilling shudder went all through his 
 frame. 
 
 "It grows cold let us return, my beloved," 
 she said to him, fondly. 
 
180 THE STAR BRETHREN. 
 
 " Leave me for a while, Anastasia I will come 
 to thee soon. Leave me now." 
 
 His words were gently spoken, but she felt that 
 they were rather a command than a solicitation. 
 She left him at his bidding ; but ere she went, she 
 threw her arms again about his neck, and sweet 
 and pure was the kiss given by their mingling lips. 
 She went towards the castle ; but, looking back 
 ward as she went, it seemed to her that she saw a 
 bright and beautiful star moving across the river 
 to the crag whereon he stood. At length she be 
 held it remain stationary beside him, and the dis 
 tinct outline of his person was developed by its 
 rays. She turned away with a strange terror 
 she dared not look again ; but hurried onward 
 with trembling steps to her chamber in the castle. 
 
 IX. 
 
 It was late that night before Albert came to the 
 chamber, and yet she had not slept. A strange, 
 sweet strain of music, wild, yet fine, came to her 
 ears at midnight, and soon after she heard it, he 
 appeared. 
 
 His looks were sad as when she left him and 
 he did not seem pleased to find her watchful. 
 
THE STAR BRETHREN. 181 
 
 " Thou hast not slept, Anastasia ?" 
 
 "No I waited for thee, Albert. I can hope 
 for no sleep when thou art absent." 
 
 " But sometimes I would have thee sleep, simply 
 because I am absent. Ah, my beloved, would that 
 I might sleep, and sleep for ever, when I can no 
 longer be with thee." 
 
 " That music that sweet music, Albert 
 whence did it come ?" 
 
 "Wilt thou not sleep now, my beloved ? I 
 am with thee," was the evasive reply ; and Anas 
 tasia understood the gentle form of chiding which 
 he had adopted. She obeyed the suggestion 
 she tried to sleep, and did sleep, but her slumbers 
 were greatly broken she knew not why ; and 
 whenever she awakened it was to hear whispering 
 voices and sudden gusts of music, that seemed to 
 be passing around the apartment with a rush of 
 wings. 
 
 X. 
 
 IT was yet early morning when Anastasia awa 
 kened and beheld Albert just about to leave the 
 chamber. She called to him, but he only smiled, 
 shook his head, waved his hand gently, and hur- 
 
 VOL. i. 16 
 
182 THE STAR BRETHREN. 
 
 ried from her sight. She rose quickly from the 
 couch, and moved to the window, from which she 
 beheld him hastening down the rocks. He looked 
 back and caught her eye, and his finger was raised 
 as if in warning. The thought of the shooting 
 star came that moment to her mind, and she hur 
 ried back to her couch. 
 
 He returned about mid-day, and seemed un 
 happy. He started frequently, and looked around 
 him, as if in anxious expectation of the approach 
 of some desired person. 
 
 " You are troubled, Albert," said Anastasia. 
 " Can I do any thing for you ?" 
 
 " Yes !" was the sudden and almost stern reply. 
 " See not that I am troubled. When thou canst 
 serve or sooth me, I will seek thee ; when I do 
 not seek thee, Anastasia, believe me, thou canst 
 not serve me. Seem then not to see that I suffer." 
 
 " And thou dost suffer, Albert?" 
 
 " I live!" was the terrible response ; and oh! 
 the immortal grief that looked forth in that mo 
 ment from his eyes. 
 
 " Would that I could die for thee, Albert !" was 
 her exclamation, as she flung herself upon his 
 bosom. He folded her fondly in his embrace, 
 while he replied to her as follows : 
 
 "Thou canst better serve me than by dying for 
 
THE STAR BRETHREN. 183 
 
 me, Anastasia and far better serve thyself. Livfe 
 for me." 
 
 " Do I not, dear Albert ?" 
 
 "No not yet thou dost not live for thyself." 
 
 She looked up wonderingly at the speaker 
 he proceeded, and his voice was full of solemnity, 
 and there was au intense earnestness in his face 
 which she did not dare a second time to look 
 upon. 
 
 " Love thy condition for itself. Seek not to 
 see, and ask not to partake of, mine. Is there 
 any thing unknown to thee? it is better forthee 
 that thou shouldst not know it. Has it come to 
 thee in a dream that a joy was in the valley await 
 ing thee, beyond any ever known to thee before . ? 
 Turn thy footsteps with a fond solicitude from the 
 path which leads to the valley. The dream was a 
 lying one, sent for thy ensnaring. Thou wilt lose 
 what thou hast, in grasping at what thou hast not ; 
 and the very hope which tells thee of a blessing to 
 come, steals a blessing from thee while it does so. 
 Beware, Anastasia, that thy head misleads not thy 
 heart, and thy fancy consumes not thy feelings. 
 Do we not love each other, Anastasia ? Couldst 
 thou have a fonder or a truer love than mine ? 
 Let it suffice thee joy in what thou hast ; pray 
 to thy God, Anastasia ; pray that, if thou dost not 
 
184 THE STAR BRETHREN. 
 
 5^et, thou mayest soon learn to love thy condition 
 as thyself it is more than thyself to thee." 
 
 He kissed her, and left her with these mysteri 
 ous lessons, over which she pondered in doubt and 
 sadness. 
 
 XL 
 
 The advice of Albert was good, but how unrea 
 sonable. How is it possible for man, unless de 
 nied to hope, to be content with his condition ? 
 How much less possible for woman ! To be con 
 tent with existing things is to desire no change 
 to hope for nothing better to live without a 
 thought of heaven. The requisition of Albert 
 sank deep into the mind of Anastasia, but not to 
 produce the effect which he desired. It came to 
 her as a restraint, and not a direction as a con 
 troller, and not a guide. Was he to suffer, and 
 was she to be denied to share with him in his 
 griefs, to console him under his torments ? Love 
 itself rose in rebellion against such a requisition. 
 And when she beheld his sadness visibly increase 
 with each successive hour, her fond heart her 
 sleepless affections could no longer remain paci 
 fied and silent. 
 
THE STAR BRETHREN. 185 
 
 " Albert, dear Albert, you do me injustice. I 
 am strong to share with you ay, to endure all 
 your afflictions. I feel that I love you too well 
 not to rejoice in pain when I know that every 
 added sting to my heart takes from that which is 
 preying upon yours. Unfold to me your griefs 
 say what afflicts you. Let me hear the worst, 
 and you will see how I can smile to place my hand 
 with yours in the flame, and, looking into your 
 eyes of love the while, feel and fear none of its 
 searching fires." 
 
 It was thus she implored him for his secret 
 her arms twining about his neck in the fondest 
 embrace her dark, sweet eyes, looking with the 
 warmest devotion at the same instant into his 
 own. 
 
 " You know not what you ask," was his reply. 
 " You ask for wo for eternal wo for a doom 
 for which you were never destined. Why, oh ! 
 why will you be dissatisfied ? Have you not my 
 love all my love my heart, truly and entirely 
 yours ? The love of the unselfish and unexacting 
 man of one who is above meanness or its re 
 proach is the richest possession ever yet given 
 to the woman heart. Wherefore would you seek 
 for more ?" 
 
 16* 
 
186 THE STAR BRETHREN. 
 
 "You do not give me your heart you will 
 not give me its sorrows. It is for these I ask." 
 
 "You have them, Anastasia it is only the 
 name you desire to know. You have them al 
 ready." 
 
 " How ?" 
 
 "Your present care your anxiety to know 
 them is your sorrow now. You see that I am 
 grieved and you grieve to see it. That is 
 enough for me, and should be enough for you. 
 You give me your sympathy when you grieve at 
 my suffering. You prove to me your love for me 
 when you wish to see me glad. I am satisfied 
 with thus much in the way of proof be you sa 
 tisfied, dearest Anastasia, with the degree of confi 
 dence I have already shown you. Seek not to 
 hear more. I, who know how much you can con 
 sole, and how greatly you ought of right to suffer 
 with me, deny you any farther knowledge of my 
 griefs than this. I would not have you even see 
 so much. But, at least, I desire that you should 
 seek to know no more." 
 
 XII. 
 
 Compelled to be silent, she yet remained unsa 
 tisfied. A feverish curiosity was gnawing at her 
 
THE STAR BRETHREN. 187 
 
 heart. What could be the matter with Albert ? 
 Were they not secure in their retreat? was he 
 impatient so soon of the pleasant fetters which 
 love and her fond arms had woven around him ? 
 She conjectured, vainly, of a thousand causes for 
 his suffering, dismissing, as idle, each suggestion 
 of her mind, as soon as it presented itself. Her 
 thoughts were sleepless, and they kept her so. 
 That night she heard strange noises in her cham 
 ber strange though slight. She had resolved 
 to keep awake, arid yet, even while she strove, it 
 seemed as if a blessed breeze came about her, in a 
 murmuring whisper, that glided into song at length, 
 and filled the air with a slumberous power. She 
 felt the sleep wrapping her still resisting limbs as 
 with a garment of melody, and though she strove 
 to burst its fetters, and her eyes persisted occasion 
 ally in looking forth, they were at length com 
 pelled to yield the struggle. Yet, ere they 
 closed entirely, it appeared as if a red and lovely 
 light, pointed and raying out like a golden star, 
 wavered and flickered around the couch where 
 she slept, fondly clasped in the arms of Albert. It 
 was not quite dawn when she awakened from 
 that sleep, and then it seemed as if she had been 
 awakened by a cold and sudden wind, which pass 
 ed over her face while yet in a state of dim and 
 
188 THE STAR BRETHREN. 
 
 doubtful consciousness ; she felt the form of Albert, 
 which before had lain quietly beside her, suddenly 
 convulsed as if with spasms ; and when she turned 
 to him and met the glance of his eyes, they were 
 wild beyond description. They glanced sadly, 
 and almost with an expression of gloom upon her, 
 and she felt as if he had repulsed her. But when, 
 under the agony of that thought, she threw her 
 arms around his neck, he returned her embrace 
 with a fondness that answered fully, if it did not 
 exceed, her own. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 All that day he was absent among the neigh 
 boring rocks and woods. She had asked to go 
 forth with him, but he had resolutely, though gen 
 tly, denied her. Her thoughts, during his absence, 
 were all given, in spite of her will, to the one ab 
 sorbing subject the mystery of his sorrows. 
 By a strange instinct, her mind continually revert 
 ed to the image of that star, that seemed to cross 
 the river, and station itself close beside him where 
 he stood. A next and natural transition of her 
 thought reviewed the singular sensations which 
 she had experienced just when sinking into slum, 
 
THE STAR BRETHREN. 189 
 
 her, and when awakening the previous night and 
 morning ; and she now remembered, among other 
 circumstances which had attended her sleep, that 
 it had followed soon after the kind kiss which Al 
 bert had impressed upon her eyes. The more she 
 meditated this matter, the more perfectly was she 
 convinced that the kiss of Albert had produced 
 that obliviousness which she was so very desirous 
 to avoid ; and, as she was resolute, in spite of all 
 his counsels, to discover what she could of the 
 occasion of his sorrows, she determined, if possi 
 ble, to escape the repetition of that kiss upon her 
 eyelids when, at a future time, she desired that her 
 eyes might be kept open. It is not difficult for a 
 woman to effect her object when she aims to do 
 wrong ; and it will be seen that Anastasia was 
 only too successful in repressing sleep when her 
 husband desired to impose it on her. 
 
 That very night she determined to try her ex 
 periments ; and accordingly, as a first step, she 
 aimed to set Albert's mind perfectly at rest as to 
 the degree of quiet which was in hers. When he 
 returned to the castle, which he did at early even 
 ing, she received him with the fondest and most 
 satisfying smiles. Her good-humor and cheer 
 fulness, easy but not obtrusive, delighted him, and 
 she now saw the truth of what he had told her. 
 
190 THE STAR BRETHREN. 
 
 He was happy as he saw her happy, and his sad 
 ness passed away, leaving not the trace of a cloud 
 upon his brow, as, to his eye, she appeared content 
 with her condition. Joyfully ay, with an in 
 toxication of joy he clasped her to his bosom, 
 and his words were never fonder, and his kisses 
 never half so sweet. She half resolved, if the ap 
 pearance of contentment on her part could pro 
 duce such a vast improvement on his, to make it 
 her study to obey him. Alas ! why have we not 
 always the strength to obey good impulses only ! 
 
 " Be ever thus, my Anastasia be ever thus, 
 and we are most happy. You will then see no 
 sorrow on my brow, and I will secure you against 
 all that might otherwise assail your heart." 
 
 " I will pray Heaven to be as you wish me, Al 
 bert. I have little else to pray for." 
 
 She retired for the night, and he promised to 
 follow her very soon. When she had gone, he 
 clasped his hands, and his eyes looked up in hope 
 to the blessed starlight that came shining through 
 the grated window of the castle. He spoke in 
 low tones of soliloquy as he looked up to the 
 wheeling and flickering fires. 
 
 " Let her but continue thus, and I am safe. 
 There will then be no more wanderings no more 
 flight no more incertitude. I shall resume my 
 
THE STAR BRETHREN. 191 
 
 station I shall ever more burn with the fixed 
 fires that the winds move not that the capricious 
 seasons check not beyond the control of the 
 mortal, beyond the power and caprice of the im 
 mortal. Yes, dearest Anastasia, in thy constancy 
 in thy content in thy love of thy condition, 
 clamouring for no change-begetting knowledge, I 
 shall be secure, and we shall both be happy." 
 
 It was not long after this that he retired to the 
 chamber of his bride. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 She had played her part to admiration she 
 had completely deceived her husband. She little 
 dreamed of the evils which spring from all decep 
 tion even where the end seems to be most in 
 nocent, and where a superficial thought esteems it 
 praiseworthy. She wished to know his griefs 
 she persuaded herself because she could then the 
 better administer to and heal them. This was 
 her duty; and so regarding it, she entirely forgot 
 that obedience, in the inferior mind, is a duty also. 
 Albert was perfectly convinced that Anastasia 
 was dissatisfied no longer. That conviction 
 brought back his cheerfulness. His was a pecu- 
 
192 THE STAR BRETHREN. 
 
 liar destiny ; and to be thought happy by her, and 
 to make her satisfied with his lot, by perfect hap 
 piness in hers, was, according to the terms of that 
 destiny, the condition of his own happiness. Be 
 lieving and confiding, with renewed and increased 
 fondness, he leaned over her, as she seemed to 
 sleep, and sweet and long was the fond kiss which 
 he pressed upon her parted lips. 
 
 She did not sleep she was watchful. With a 
 pertinacity that did not suffer fatigue or pause, she 
 kept resolutely awake until midnight. Remem 
 bering the kiss upon her eyelids which her hus 
 band had usually given her, and to which she at 
 tributed the deep slumber which always seemed 
 to have followed it, she contrived so to dispose her 
 arms as to throw one of them effectually over her 
 eyes, and thus to prevent the possibility of his lips 
 pressing upon them. She found the position an 
 unpleasant and tiresome one after a little while ; 
 but, bent upon her design, she determined to suffer 
 the annoyance rather than forego her purpose. 
 When a woman once sets her mind upon any thing, 
 it is no small matter which is to divert her from it. 
 
 Midnight came at last, to her great satisfaction. 
 She heard the clock of the castle toll forth the 
 hour with a solemn emphasis, and she could scarce 
 ly restrain the deep sigh of her heart from forcing 
 
THE STAR. BRETHREN. 193 
 
 its way to a corresponding sound to her lips. 
 But she did restrain herself, and in a moment after 
 she distinctly felt a cold wind rush through the 
 apartment. At that moment Albert half rose in 
 the couch, and bent over her. She felt his breath 
 ing distinctly lift the lighter curls of her hair, and 
 * with a keen ear he listened to her respirations. He 
 tried with a gentle finger to detach her arm from 
 its close place over her eyes ; but the arm seemed 
 all at once to have become most obstinately rigid, 
 and he failed in his efforts, in which he did not 
 persevere for fear of awaking her. As if satisfied 
 that she slept, he seemed to turn away ; and the 
 arm, so obstinately immoveable before, was now 
 slightly lifted, without being removed from her 
 eyes, and only sufficiently to enable her to give a 
 single glance around the apartment. As she had 
 seen before, she now distinctly beheld a shadowy 
 outline at the foot of the couch, in whose massive 
 brow a bright pale star shone fixedly and soft. A 
 moment more had elapsed when the form of Al 
 bert became suddenly convulsed, and she could 
 scarcely forbear the fond impulse which prompted 
 her to forget every precaution, and clasp him in 
 her arms ; but the secret stirred in her mind at that 
 moment, and she maintained her position and si 
 lence, though several convulsions, each successive 
 VOL. i. 17 
 
194 THE STAR BRETHREN. 
 
 one more severe than the preceding, shook his form 
 as with so many dreadful spasms. They were 
 scarcely over when a cold breath of air seemed 
 to pass above her neck, and she distinctly felt the 
 body of Albert sink down helplessly beside her. 
 Her heart beat impetuously she could scarce 
 suppress her breathing, and nothing but the most 
 resolute determination enabled her to forbear 
 shrieking aloud. She did forbear, however ; and 
 once more venturing to look forth, she now dis 
 tinctly beheld two shadowy forms glide through 
 the apartment, with each a red and similar star 
 shining brightly upon his forehead. 
 
 XV. 
 
 Anastasia could bear this no longer, particu 
 larly when, turning to the side of the couch where 
 Albert lay, his body was cold, corpse-like, and im- 
 moveable. Conviction forced itself upon her 
 the secret was discovered, and the burden was in 
 supportable. She shrieked aloud in her agony ; 
 she clasped the lifeless body in her arms, while her 
 eyes, addressing the star-fronted shadows that stood 
 at the foot of the bed, seemed to appeal to them 
 once more for the restoration of the inanimate form 
 
THE STAR BRETHREN. 195 
 
 beside her, With the first accents of that wild 
 and fearful shriek, indicating, as it did, the sudden 
 and startling intelligence which her mind had re 
 ceived, a visible effect was produced upon the 
 strange aspects before her. While she looked, 
 she beheld one of the stars rise slowly, and sail 
 away without obstruction through the spacious 
 windows, while the other wavered and flickered 
 about as if in the gusts of an uprising storm. A 
 storm, indeed, seemed to rage through the apart 
 ment. The shadowy figure appeared to expand 
 into a rolling and tossing cloud, in the midst of 
 which, as if it were the centre of its action, the 
 bright star now grew more bright, and of a deeper 
 red, and shot forth the most angry fires on every 
 side. Nothing could exceed the terrors of Anas- 
 tasia. The star seemed now to approach her, and 
 gust after gust, like the rushing of so many heavy 
 wings, passed and repassed over the couch where 
 she lay, lifting and rending its silken draper}-. 
 She cried aloud once more in her apprehension. 
 
 " Forgive, forgive me, dearest Albert forgive 
 me that I have offended. Come to me* be as 
 thou wert I will obey thee I will never offend 
 thee more." 
 
 " Too late too late," cried a voice of sorrow 
 rather than of anger from the bosom of the cloud. 
 
196 THE STAR BRETHREN". 
 
 which now hung, like a dense wreath of vapour, 
 just above the couch where she lay. 
 
 "It is too late, dearest Anastasia I can re 
 turn to thee no more." 
 
 " Wherefore wherefore ?" was the interroga 
 tion of the terrified woman. 
 
 " It is the doom !" was the hollow answer from 
 the cloud ; and the star that still shone from the 
 vague form before her seemed to shed drops of 
 blood, that fell even upon the garments of her 
 couch, as the mournful voice thus responded to 
 her inquiry. 
 
 " Alas ! alas ! wherefore is this doom !" she 
 cried once more to the shadow and the star. 
 
 " Thou hast already asked too much. I warned 
 thee, my Anastasia. Was it not enough to know 
 that thou wert happy ? Why wast thou not satis 
 fied with thy condition ? Thou hast destroyed the 
 hope and the happiness of both by thy impatient 
 thirst after the why and the wherefore." 
 
 " Alas ! and for this are we to be disunited, my 
 Albert for so slight a cause as this are we to 
 lose the blessing we have lived for ?" 
 
 He replied to her in an allegory. 
 
 " Does the flower please thee ? wherefore de 
 stroy it to know whence come the scent and the 
 beauty f The odor fh'os when thou dost so and 
 
THE STAR BRETHREN". 197 
 
 the beauty fades. This is life this, always, the 
 happiness of the mortal. But thou art mortal no 
 longer, my Anastasia thou art now destined to 
 share, even as thou desiredst it, the terrible doom 
 which is mine'!" 
 
 " What meanest thou, Albert ?" she inquired, 
 tremblingly, as these fearful words reached her 
 ears. 
 
 "Albert no longer," cried the star. "Thy 
 lover was a god!" 
 
 She sank from the couch where she had lain as 
 she heard these words, and she now lay extended 
 along the floor. 
 
 " Rise, Anastasia, still beloved, though mine no 
 longer rise," said the star, " and I will tell thee 
 what is given to thee to know." 
 
 She rose she stood tremblingly in the presence 
 of that fiery eye that looked down upon her, while 
 the cloud in which it was imbedded hung over her 
 like a protecting and mighty shield. How glori 
 ous, how fearful, were the words which followed. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 "When I bade thee regard the flight from 
 
 heaven of a lovely star but a few nights ago, 
 17* 
 
198 
 
 THE STAR BRETHREN. 
 
 Anastasia, I called thee to witness my own fate. 
 That star was a kindred light with mine, seduced 
 by me, as I had been seduced, from the sweet and 
 beautiful abode where it shone, happy and adored, 
 on high. I had my abode beside it, and was the 
 worshipped deity of a mighty nation. No eye 
 brighter then mine looked forth from the eastern 
 summits no more pure or peaceful planet gave 
 light to the returning shepherds. Like the star 
 whose flight I pointed out to thy regard, I fell from 
 my place of glory, and the secret of my fall was 
 in the commission of thy error. I was discontented 
 with my condition." 
 
 The spirit-lover paused, and the hapless An-as- 
 tasia wrung her hands in hopeless misery. He 
 proceeded 
 
 " For ages, before the birth of time, had that 
 lovely abiding-place been the assigned station from 
 which I shone. Millions of lovely spirits shone 
 and revolved around me, with a light partly bor 
 rowed from mine ; but oh 1 how unapproachably 
 inferior to me. I was beloved I was worshipped ; 
 but, like thee, Anastasia, I knew not to be content 
 in my place, and incurred,, in a hapless moment, 
 a doom not unlike, but far more terrible than 
 thine." 
 
 The maiden moaned upon the floor of the apart- 
 
THE STAR BRETHREN. 199 
 
 merit, but without the utterance of a single word. 
 At that moment a pale star sailed along by the 
 window, and from the dim cloud, of which it was 
 the centre, she heard a voice crying mournfully 
 
 11 Come !" 
 
 Albert replied with a promise of compliance, 
 and the spectre-glory floated away in the distance 
 from her sight. He proceeded hi his narration : 
 
 "One night one fatal night looking down 
 from my place of watch, I beheld, in undisturbed 
 quiet and loveliness, the various and the wondrous 
 worlds around me. A pale form passed hurriedly 
 along upon one planet, the earth, and it waved its 
 hands, and it shrieked m agony, and its cries of 
 sorrow came to my ears, even afar off as was my 
 dwelling. Thine was that form, Anastasia thou 
 wert the mourner." 
 
 " Alas ! alas P J cried the hapless woman but 
 she could exclaim nothing farther. 
 
 " Thine was the form, and such was the agony 
 of thy piercing . shriek, that inly I mourned for 
 thee I deemed it a cruel injustice that such as 
 thou shouldst suffer. Thou wert so lovely and sa 
 sorrowful, and the sweetest loves in the thoughts 
 of the blessed, are those which are most allied ta 
 sadness." 
 
 With these words the spirit paused in his narra- 
 
200 THE STAR BRETHREN. 
 
 tion, and the cloud in which the eye hung and 
 shone now veered away and approached one of the 
 windows of the apartment. At the same time, 
 many stars, floating in like forms, came before the 
 window, and strange words passed between Albert 
 and the rest, in tones of the most sweet but subdued 
 and melancholy music. In a few moments they 
 floated away like the last, and her companion again 
 approached and hung above her in the apart 
 ment. He continued his narration : 
 
 " With the thought and the desire which came 
 to me as I surveyed thee, Anastasia, a dim and 
 giant form came rushing towards me, from the 
 piled clouds that lay like so many rocks and tow 
 ers in the northern horizon. His speed was like 
 that of the lightning ; and he made his way among 
 the stars around me, obscuring their lustre, and 
 scorning their obstruction, with the rapid rush of 
 a mighty tempest. When he approached me, he 
 lay suspended on his outstretched wings, the cur 
 tain of which clouded the earth and concealed it 
 that moment from my sight, and he gazed upon me 
 with an air of sorrowful pride, mixed with the most 
 mortifying expression of contempt. * I have heard 
 thy wish,' he cried * thou canst dare to regret, 
 but not to repair. Thou canst see, but thou hast 
 not the courage to share the suffering which thou 
 
THE STAR BRETHREN. 201 
 
 Truly, thou art a generous spirit noble 
 in the estimation of the highest, and worthy of the 
 fixed place which thou holdest.' Such were his 
 words of scorn, and they touched my pride. * And 
 what better fortune is thine, dark spirit ?' I replied 
 to the intruder. ' What hast thou to boast beyond 
 me in what is thy better portion ?' He answered 
 readily, and his voice went through me with a 
 strange and mighty power, so that I trembled in 
 the sphere in which I had never before been 
 shaken. 
 
 " * I am free,' was his fierce and proud reply. 
 ' I am free.* 
 
 " I heard his words with a throbbing and speech 
 less admiration, and began to feel a fond desire 
 that I too might be free. I little knew then the 
 nature of the blessing which I sought. I little 
 thought that, to be free, 1 should for ever after be 
 alone ! 
 
 " But I was not yet free, and I replied to him 
 still as the appointed servant of my master: 'My 
 state is glorious my home is one of lights, and 
 love, and perpetual flowers ; and my duty is only 
 to watch for the Mighty One.' He replied in 
 greater scorn 
 
 "'Thy home is one of lights true but 
 they are spies which are set upon thee to report 
 
202 THE STAR BRETHREN. 
 
 when thou errest the love which is given thee 
 is not given for thyself, but for thy service and 
 the flowers of which thou art mad to boast look, 
 fool, they are woven into chains. Thou art a 
 slave but to spy upon others thou art spied 
 upon thyself, and held worthy of love only as thou 
 dost the appointed task of the menial.' 
 
 " He had spoken to me a dreadful truth so I 
 deemed it at the time, and in my thoughts I wish 
 ed myself free free as the fierce and mighty 
 form that lay prone like a fearless giant, proud 
 and scornful' in his might, before my eyes. I wish 
 ed for freedom, and with the wish I felt the golden 
 link melt away that secured me in my station 
 the bands of flowers, which like a chain had held 
 me with a spell which no foreign power or agency 
 could have broken, now, at my single wish, were 
 relaxed from about me, and a mighty and clear 
 voice from a world a thousand worlds above me, 
 came to me like the sudden sound of a trumpet 
 
 "'Thou art free!' 
 
 XVII. 
 
 " Dreadful freedom ! That instant I felt myself 
 alone. I was detached from the sphere in which 
 
THE STAR BRETHREN. 203 
 
 I had borne so small a labour, and enjoyed such a 
 high and worshipped glory, and I floated away 
 into a thousand regions, and journeyed with the 
 mighty spectre which had seduced me to his sor 
 rows and my own shame. But ere I had utterly 
 left the sphere in which I had dwelt so happily 
 and so long, I heard the sad lament of my compa 
 nion stars, stronger, yet more humble in station 
 than myself, whom I had left behind me. It was 
 a strain which told me my destiny, and shaped out 
 my only future hope, as it detailed my own duty 
 to myself and to the mighty master. 
 
 " CHORUS OF THE STAR BRETHREN.* 
 I. 
 
 { Wo to us and to thee, 
 Star most beloved 
 Thy world and ours 
 Tumbles, and falls abroad 
 Thou, in thy weakness, 
 Brother, most erring 
 Thou, in thy loneliness, 
 Thou hast destroy'd it ! 
 
 II. 
 
 " ' They bear away 
 They the dark spirits 
 
 Imitated from a chorus of spirits in the " Faust" of Goethe 
 
204 THE STAR BRETHREN. 
 
 Whose pleasure is ruin ! 
 They bear away 
 The hope and the harmony 
 "Wreck'd into nothingness ! 
 While we weep over 
 The beauty that's lost ! 
 
 III. 
 
 " ' Mighty among the stars, 
 Bright one, rebuild it ! 
 In thy own bosom 
 Rebuild it again ! 
 Begin a new being 
 With spirit unshaken, 
 Then shall new music 
 Unite the now sunder'd !' 
 
 "Such was the mournful anthem which my 
 brethren sang in sorrow at my departure and fall, 
 and whose strains followed me afar, and still fol 
 low me. I hear them now ; and thou too, dearest 
 Anastasia, with whom I had commenced that new 
 being, and through whose beloved agency I had 
 hoped for my restoration, with thee beside me, 
 partaking my immortality and glory in that high 
 place thou too ma3'st hear them now." 
 
 And she did hear, for a gust of the breeze, that 
 seemed full of perfume, floated that moment by 
 the window, and her ears distinctly noted the last 
 words of the melancholy and imploring anthem : 
 
THE STAR BRETHREN. 205 
 
 " Mighty among the stars, 
 Bright one rebuild it ! 
 In thy own bosom 
 Rebuild it again ! 
 Begin a new being 
 With spirit unshaken, 
 Then shall new music 
 Unite the now sunder'd !" 
 
 " I had commenced that new being with thee, 
 my Anastasia, and hoped to have succeeded in my 
 labours ; but the very danger which I feared, and 
 against which I strove to counsel thee, has wrecked 
 the fond hope within my bosom, and now drives 
 me forth once more, alone, to commence my toils 
 anew. Thou wast not content with thy condition 
 or with mine thou hast committed mine own 
 error." 
 
 " And is there no forgiveness, Albert ? let me 
 but be tried once more, my beloved " 
 
 " Thou shalt be tried, Anastasia this is thy 
 doom, no less than mine. Thou hast striven to 
 know it is now thy destiny thou art now 
 doomed to partake of mine." 
 
 " Ah ! happy happy shall I be, Albert, if so 
 permitted." 
 
 " Alas ! Anastasia, thou knowest not what it is 
 thou canst not dream of its terrors," was the 
 mournful answer of the spirit to the fond assuran- 
 
 VOL. i. 18 
 
206 THE STAE BRETHREN. 
 
 ces of the devoted woman. " Thou deemest that, 
 to share my destiny, thou wilt still remain with 
 me." 
 
 " And will it not be so, my Albert ?" 
 
 "Alas! no!" was the sad reply. "It is my 
 doom of loneliness which thou art to share my 
 doom of isolation. Thou wilt not go with me, 
 nor I with thee, yet we must both go forth. Thou 
 hast to seek, as well as myself, for that condition 
 among the mortal which is borne without repining, 
 and with no desire of change. Make thyself 
 kindred to such a spirit, and thou livest with me 
 when I rejoin the stars." 
 
 She lay shrieking at the foot of the cloud, which 
 now slowly descended, and seemed to encircle her. 
 
 " Come !" exclaimed a sober and sad, yet soft 
 accent, at the window ; and there, in her sight, 
 floated once more the kindred star which had fol 
 lowed her lover ; she felt herself lifted from the 
 ground, and enveloped in a fold of the softest and 
 the sweetest air, while the bright eye of Albert, 
 starlike and pure, came close to her forehead. 
 
 " What wouldst thou ?" demanded Anastasia, 
 in her bewilderment. 
 
 " Impress upon thee my immortality with my 
 doom," was the answer ; and that moment she 
 felt the star pressing like ice upon her forehead. 
 
THE STAR BRETHREN. 207 
 
 It seemed to sink, cold and chilling, into her very 
 brain, and she shrieked with the momentary agony 
 of that feeling. In another instant she was re 
 leased from his embrace, and, whirling round with 
 a motion not her own, she now found herself 
 wrapped in an airy mantle like that of her com 
 panion, and she was conscious, while floating away 
 away into the fathomless abysses of the air 
 that she shone from the centre of a cloud like the 
 star which had personified her lover. Her next 
 feeling was that of utter isolation. She beheld the 
 beautiful star, which she had loved as a mortal, 
 sailing along, with a slow and steady light, above 
 the rocks and the river, and she strove to follow 
 and rejoin it. But a power restrained her move 
 ments and checked her will, and she now felt her 
 self borne unresistingly in an opposite direction. 
 Then, for the first time, did she feel the horrible na 
 ture of that destiny which she had so passionately 
 desired to share with him. The fearful truth which 
 he had uttered came like a knell of agony to her 
 suffering soul, as she felt and feared, in that deso 
 late moment, that she was destined for ever after 
 to remain alone ! 
 


 ONEA AND ANYTA. 
 
 18* 
 

ONEA AND ANYTA. 
 
 4- 
 
 i. 
 
 THE Yemassee was no longer the great nation. 
 They had set their fortunes upon a cast, and the 
 throw was fatal. Civilization triumphed. The 
 Carolinians, in spite of the sudden massacres under 
 which they had suffered at the beginning of the 
 war, were at length Successful ; and at Coosa- 
 whatchie, or the " town of refuge," the Yemas- 
 sees lost their best leaders. With these, they lost 
 all spirit, and their surviving warriors were unequal 
 to the task of restoring their fortunes. Scattered 
 and without counsel, they yet fled, as if by a com 
 mon instinct, to their sacred town of Pocota-ligo, 
 where, in the presence of their priests and the pro 
 tection of their gods, they had faint hopes yet of 
 effecting by prayers and superstitious ceremonies, 
 what, hitherto, their own fearless valor had utterly 
 
212 ONE A AND ANYTA. 
 
 failed to accomplish. Their resources were now 
 nearly exhausted their villages in flames ; and re 
 lying as they had done, upon the hope of obtain 
 ing possession of the chief city and provisions of 
 the whites, their fields had, in the greater number 
 of cases, been left without cultivation. Their 
 Spanish allies, always deceitful, after stimulating 
 them to war, had left them to contend with it single 
 handed. On hearing of the defeat and slaughter 
 of the Yemassees, such of them as had been sent 
 from St. Augustine to their succor, returned to the 
 shelter of its walls, under the influence of a sudden 
 panic. The neighboring Indian tribes followed 
 the base example, and either returned to their fo 
 rests, or made concessions, and bound themselves 
 by treaty to the conquerors, giving hostages for 
 their future good behavior. Not so with the un 
 happy Yeniassees. They were still too proud to 
 beg for that peace, which they yet needed more 
 than all, and which alone could save them from ex 
 termination. They were too brave to desire peace 
 when their slain brothers remained unavenged. 
 They resolved, therefore, to carry on the struggle 
 to the last ; and, crowding into the holy town of 
 Pocota-ligo, they proceeded to strengthen them 
 selves in their position, as well as they might, 
 there to await the approach of the Carolinians. 
 
ONE A AND ANYTA. 213 
 
 They fortified the town, somewhat after the fashion 
 of the European settlers, with the trunks of trees 
 and the larger branches, rudely bedded together. 
 This done, divided between hopes and fears, they 
 passed the brief time which elapsed between their 
 preparations and the assault. They had not long to 
 wait. Their defences, which, manned by Euro 
 peans, and against savages, might have proved 
 adequate to their purposes, proved no barrier 
 against the pursuer. The impetuous onset of their 
 sanguine assailants could not be withstood by those, 
 made already apprehensive by previous experience, 
 of the result; and their frail bulwarks were stormed, 
 and Pocota-ligo in flames, in the same fearful hour 
 of assault. The scene was terrible; but, though 
 despairing, the Indians did not think of flight. 
 The men fell, and the women filled their places. 
 A dreadful massacre ensued : naked and howling, 
 but tearing and rending as they ran, men, women, 
 and children, darted to and from the blazing dwell 
 ings, shrieking for that revenge which they could 
 obtain in part only. The}' neither gave nor asked 
 for quarter ; and in the darkness of night and the 
 confusion of the scene, they were enabled to pro 
 tract the conflict with the success which must al 
 ways follow courage, and the valor of men fighting 
 fearlessly for their homes. Through the night the 
 
214 ONE A AND ANYTA. 
 
 battle lasted, but as soon as the day broke upon 
 them, the struggle was over. The first glimpses 
 of the morning found the bayonet at the heart of 
 the few surviving warriors, who still lived, but only 
 at the mercy of those to whom in all their successes 
 they had shown no mercy. But few of them es 
 caped. Before sunrise, the fight was ended, and 
 the great nation of the Yemassees was stricken from 
 existence. 
 
 II. 
 
 On the eastern banks of the Isundiga, or Sa 
 vannah river, there is a lofty tumulus, which the 
 insidious waters of the stream have long since be 
 gun to undermine. On the summit of this tumu 
 lus, the morning after the termination of this fatal 
 combat, stood a Yemassee warrior. The blood 
 upon his visage his torn garments and broken 
 instruments of war, sufficiently testified to the re 
 cent strifes in which he had been engaged. It 
 was Echotee, a valiant chief, who stood upon the 
 tumulus. His limbs were weary with toil and 
 flight his eye was dim, and the melancholy sad 
 ness of the Indian mouth was heightened into hate 
 and anguish. He busied himself in fitting new 
 
ONEA AND ANYTA. 215 
 
 sinews to his bow, and sharp flint heads to his ar 
 rows. The hunting shirt which he wore a finely 
 dressed buckskin of the brightest yellow, fantasti 
 cally inwrought with shells and beads such deco 
 rations as the tasteful woman, Hiwassee, his wife, 
 had fondly chosen for the purpose was torn in 
 many places, and spots of the darkest red were 
 contrasted with the bright yellow of the garment. 
 Wounded, lone, and sorrowing, yet Echotee did 
 not despair. His eye had exile in it, but not fear ; 
 neither did he despond. Firmness and manly 
 resolution shared with sorrow the habitations of 
 his soul. Anxiously, at moments, he looked to 
 wards the forests behind him, as if in expectation ; 
 but their dark intricacies uttered no sound or 
 voice, and he turned his eyes away in disappoint 
 ment. Then, after a brief pause, taking his way 
 down from the tumulus, he moved to a little stream 
 let that trickled at the foot of the mound, and pass 
 ing partially through it, at length made its way to the 
 bosom of the Isundiga. Stooping to the stream, 
 he drank freely of its waters ; then, returning has 
 tily to the mound, he proceeded, with a slender 
 shingle, with which he had provided himself, to dig 
 an opening in the hillock, as if contemplating a 
 place of sepulture. While he dug, he sang in a 
 
216 
 
 ONEA AND ANYTA. 
 
 low but unsubdued tone, a chant, in which he la 
 mented the fortunes of his fellows : 
 
 " They are gone, and the night covers them. 
 My feet have no companion in the chase the 
 hollow woods speak to me with the voices of 
 shadows there is no life in their sounds. Where 
 art thou, Washattee where speedest thou, whom 
 none yet has overtaken. On the far hills that rise 
 blue at the evening I see thee thou hast found the 
 valley of joy, arid the plum-groves that are ever in 
 bloom. But who, brother, shall gather thy bones 
 who take care of thy spirit where shall the 
 children look, when they seek for thy grave. Thou 
 art all untended in the green valleys, and the ghosts 
 of the slain bend over thee with many frowns. 
 Comes she, the maid of thy bosom, to dress the 
 board of the hunter ? Brings she at evening thy 
 venison ? When the night is dark, and the brown 
 vulture stoops on thy path, and snuffs up blood of 
 thy spilling, I fear for thee, my brother. Thou 
 canst not sit in the green valley, for the warrior 
 lives who has slain thee, and mine arrow may reach 
 him not. Yet will I sing for thee, Washattee I 
 will sing for thee thy death-song, and tell the ghosts 
 who frown, of thy many victories ; thou wert mighty 
 in the chase the high hills did not overcome 
 thee. Thy boyhood was like the manhood of 
 
V 
 ONE A AND ANYTA. 217 
 
 other men thou didst not creep in thy childhood. 
 From the first, thy feet were strong to walk, and 
 what speed of the warrior was like unto thine ? 
 Well did they call theethe young panther the eye 
 and the might of the young panther's mother was 
 thine. The strong tide, when thou swammest, 
 bore thee not back thou didst put it by like an 
 infant. In the chase, thou wert an arrow which 
 laughs at the bird's wing in the battle, thou wert 
 a keen tooth that goes deep in the heart. Thus 
 said the Muscoghee, when his eyes swam in the 
 cloud as he lay under thy knee thus said the 
 Catawba, when thy hand struck through the long 
 willows by the lake of Sarattay. The ghosts of 
 the Muscoghee and the Catawba shall wait for thy 
 coming, and meet thee to serve, when thine eye 
 opens upon the green valley, and thy shadow darts 
 forward on the silent chase. But thou, oh Yemas- 
 see thou of the broad arrow and the big wing 
 it is sad for thee when none but Echotee may 
 stand up for thy people. Thy wing is down 
 among the reeds that lie beside the river thy 
 broad arrow is broken on the plain. Thy shadow 
 grows small upon thy tumulus, and I speak thy 
 name in a whisper. Opitchi-manneyto looks on 
 thee in wrath. He joyed in the last cry of Sa- 
 nutee he joyed when the death-song came thick 
 VOL. i. 19 
 
218 ONE A AND ANY/TA. 
 
 from the lips of Chigilli -he joyed when the pale 
 faces cut the sinews in thy thousand arms. Who 
 shall sing thy greatness, Yemassee what warrior 
 to come after ? What woman with long hair shall 
 creep through the forest, looking in the evening 
 for thy scattered bones? Who shall scare the 
 wolf from thy carcass, as he tears thy flesh beneath 
 the moon. The fox burrows under the hearth of 
 the hunter, and there is no fire to drive him away. 
 Silence lives lonely in thy dwelling. Thou art 
 gone. Spirit of many ages ! thy voice is sunk 
 into a whisper ; and thy name, it is an echo on the 
 hill tops. Thy glories are the graves of many 
 enemies, but thy own grave is unknown." 
 
 The death-chant of the warrior was broken. A 
 sudden cry of sorrow reached his edrs from the 
 neighboring woods, and was immediately suc 
 ceeded by the appearance of about thirty other 
 Indians, of both sexes, emerging from the shadowy 
 umbrage. These were all that were left of his 
 nation. Echotee looked on them for an instant 
 with sudden interest, but his eyes were again as in 
 stantly dropped upon the ground, and his hands 
 continued to labor upon the grave which he had 
 begun. Meanwhile the Indians advanced, bearing 
 along with them, from the woods, the dead body 
 of a warrior. This was Washattee, the warrior 
 
ONEA AND ANYTA. f 219 
 
 whose death-song had been just sung by his bro 
 ther. Beside this, Echotee gave no other sign of 
 sorrow. No trace of that grief which might be 
 supposed natural to his uttered lamentations, was 
 visible in his action or face. His words seemed 
 to fall from lips of marble. His was the majesty 
 of wo, without its weakness. 
 
 Washattee had fled with the few survivors from 
 the fatal field of Pocota-ligo ; but his wounds were 
 fatal, and he only fled from a quick to a protracted 
 form of death. He perished in the forests when, 
 no longer in danger from the pursuing foe. They 
 were now to bury him. The ceremonies of burial 
 among the savages are usually simple. The war 
 riors, as they assisted to deposite their comrade in 
 the grave, chanted over him a song, not unlike 
 that which has already been recited. They enu 
 merated his victories over the Catawba, the Mus- 
 coghee, and other nations his particular successes 
 in the chase ; and their only and common regret 
 was, that his death had not been avenged in the 
 blood of the victor. While they sang, Echotee, 
 who remained silent all the while, placed beside 
 him, in the grave, his bow, his arrows, knife, pipe, 
 and a plentiful supply of flint arrow-heads, to meet 
 the emergencies of the chase in the shady vallies, 
 to which, according to their faith, his steps were 
 
220 ONEA AND ANYTA. 
 
 already bending. This done, and the soft mould 
 heaped upon him, after a brief consultation, they 
 stepped one by one into the order of march known 
 as the Indian file, making but one footstep for the 
 eyes of the pursuer, and followed, at equal distan 
 ces, the guidance of the brave Echotee. By the 
 side of the latter, came, in tears, the young and 
 beautiful Hiwassee, the maiden who, but a little 
 time before, had broken with him the wand of 
 marriage the sacred wand of Checkamoysee. 
 To the deeper western forests they bent their way, 
 and the shadows of evening soon sank behind them 
 like a wall, separating them forever from their na 
 tive homes. 
 
 in. 
 
 Many years had now elapsed, and men ceased to 
 remember the once noble nation of the Yemassees 
 once the most terrible and accomplished people 
 of the southern forests. They had even gone out 
 of the memories of their ancient enemies, the 
 Creeks ; and the Carolinians, while in the full en 
 joyment of the fertile lands which had been their 
 heritage, had almost entirely forgotten the hard 
 toils and fearful perils by which they had been ac- 
 
. 
 
 ONEA AND ANYTA. 221 
 
 quired. It was in the morning of a bright day in 
 October, that a small Indian canoe might have 
 been seen ascending the river St. Mary, tip to its 
 source in the Okeefanokee swamp, a dismal region, 
 which lies between the Ockmulgee and Flint rivers, 
 in the state of Georgia. 
 
 There were but two persons in the canoe, both 
 Indian hunters of the Creek nation ; a gallant 
 race, well known for high courage among the 
 tribes, and distinguished not less by their wild 
 magnanimity and adventure, than by their daring 
 ferocity. The warriors were both young, and 
 were numbered, and with strict justice, among the 
 elite of their people. At peace, for the first time 
 for many seasons, with all around them, they gave 
 themselves up to the pleasures of the chase, and 
 sought, in the hardy trials of the hunt for the bear 
 and the buffalo, to relieve the inglorious and un 
 welcome ease which this novel condition of things 
 had imposed upon them. Our two adventurers, 
 forsaking the beaten track, and with a spirit tend 
 ing something more than customary to that which 
 distinguishes civilization, had undertaken an ex 
 ploring expedition into the recesses of this vast 
 lake and marsh, which, occupying a space of near 
 ly three hundred miles in extent, and in very rainy 
 seasons almost completely inundated, presented, 
 19* 
 

 
 222 ONE A AND ANYTA. 
 
 amidst the thousand islands which its bosom con 
 ceals, fruitful and inviting materials for inquiry 
 and adventure. Girt in with interminable forests, 
 the space of which was completely filled up with 
 umbrageous vines and a thick underwood, the trial 
 was one of no little peril, and called for the exer 
 cise of stout heart, strong hand, and a world of 
 fortitude and patience. It was also the abiding- 
 place of the wild boar and the panther the 
 southern crocodile howled nightly in its recesses 
 and the coiled snake, ever and anon, thrust out its 
 venomous fangs from the verdant bush. With 
 words of cheer and mutual encouragement, the 
 young hunters made their way. They were well 
 armed and prepared for all chances ; and fondly 
 did they anticipate the delight which they would 
 entertain, on relating their numerous adventures 
 and achievements, by field and flood, to the assem 
 bled nation, on the return of the ensuing spring. 
 They took with them no unnecessary incumbran- 
 ces. The well tempered bow, the chosen and 
 barbed arrows, the curved knife, suited to a transi 
 tion the most abrupt, from the scalping of the ene 
 my to the carving of the repast, and the hatchet, 
 fitted to the adroit hand of the hunter, and ready 
 at his back for all emergencies, were the principal 
 accoutrements of the warriors. They troubled 
 
ONEA AND ANYTA. 223 
 
 themselves not much about provisions, A little 
 parched corn supplied all wants, and the dried 
 venison in their pouches was a luxury, taken on 
 occasion only. They knew that, for an Indian, 
 the woods had always a pregnant store ; and they 
 did not doubt that their own address, in such mat 
 ters, would at all times enable them to come at it. 
 Dreary, indeed, was their progress. An Euro 
 pean would have despaired entirely, and given up 
 what must have appeared, not merely a visionary 
 and hopeless, but a desperate and dangerous pur 
 suit. But the determination of an Indian, once 
 made, is unchangeable. His mind clothes itself 
 in a seemingly habitual stubbornness, and he is 
 inflexible and unyielding. Though young, scarce 
 ly arrived at manhood, our warriors were too well 
 taught in the national philosophy, to have done 
 any thing half so womanlike as to turn their backs 
 upon an adventure, devised coolly, and commenced 
 with all due preparation. They resolutely pursued 
 their way, unfearing, unswerving, unshrinking. 
 The river narrowed at length into hundreds of di 
 verging rivulets, and, after having run their canoe 
 upon the sands, they were compelled to desert it r 
 and pursue their farther way on foot. They did 
 not pause, but entered at once upon the new labor; 
 and now climbing from tree to bank now wading 
 
224 ONEA AND ANYTA. 
 
 along the haunts of the plunging alligator, through 
 pond and mire now hewing with their hatchets 
 a pathway through the thickest branches, they 
 found enough to retard, but nothing to deter them. 
 For days did they pursue this species of toil, pass 
 ing from island to island alternately wading and 
 swimming until at length, all unexpectedly, the 
 prospect opened in strange brightness and beauty 
 before them. They came to a broad and love 
 ly lake, surrounded on all sides by the forest, 
 through a portion of which they had passed with 
 so much difficulty, and to which the storms never 
 came. It lay sleeping before them with the calm 
 of an infant, and sheltered by the wood, the wild 
 vine, and a thousand flowers. In the centre rose 
 a beautiful island, whose shores were crowned with 
 trees bearing all species of fruit, and emitting a 
 most grateful fragrance. The land was elevated 
 and inviting, and, as they looked, the young war 
 riors conceived it the most blissful and lovely spot 
 of earth. Afar in the distance, they beheld the 
 white habitations of the people of the strange land, 
 but in vain did they endeavor to reach them. 
 They did not seek to adventure into the broad and 
 otherwise inviting waters ; for occasionally they 
 could behold the crocodiles, of the largest and 
 fiercest class, rising to the surface, and seeming to> 
 
OXEA AND ANYTA. 225 
 
 threaten them with their unclasped jaws, thickly 
 studded with their white sharp teeth. While in 
 this difficulty, they beheld a young maiden waving 
 them on the opposite bank ; and Onea, the young 
 est of the two hunters, attracted by the incompa 
 rable beauty of her person, would have leapt with 
 out scruple into the lake, and swam to the side on 
 which she stood, but that his more grave and cau 
 tious companion, Hillaby, restrained him. They 
 observed her motions, and perceived that she direct 
 ed their attention to some object in the distance. 
 Following her direction, they found a small canoe 
 tied to a tree, and sheltered in a little bay. Into this 
 they entered fearlessly, and putting out their pad 
 dles, passed in a short time to the opposite shore, 
 the beauty of which, now that they had reached 
 it, was even more surpassingly great than when 
 seen afar off. Nor did the young Indian maiden, 
 in the eye of the brave Onea, lose any of those 
 charms, the influence of which had already pene 
 trated his inmost spirit. But now she stood not 
 alone. A bright young maiden like herself ap 
 peared beside her, and, taking the warriors by the 
 hand, they sung sweet songs of pleasure in their 
 ears, and brought them the milk of the cocoa to 
 refresh them, and plucked for them many of the 
 rich and delightful fruits which hung over their 
 
226 ONEA AND ANYTA. 
 
 heads. There were oranges and dates, and cakes 
 made of corn and sugar, baked with their own 
 hands, which they cordially set before them. Ma 
 ny were the sweet glances and precious sentences 
 which they gave to the young warriors, and soon 
 did the gallant Creeks understand, and gladly did 
 they respond to their kindness. Long would they 
 have lingered with these maidens, but, when their 
 repast had ended, they enjoined them to begone 
 to fly as quickly as possible, for that their people 
 were cruel to strangers, and the men of their na 
 tion would certainly destroy them with savage tor 
 tures, were they to return from the distant chase 
 upon which they had gone, and find the intruders. 
 " But will they not give you," said the fearless 
 Onea, " to be the bride of a brave warrior? I shame 
 not to speak the name of my nation. They are 
 men, and they beg not for life. I, myself, am a 
 man among my people, who are all men. They 
 will give you to fill my wigwam. I will do battle 
 for you, Anyta, with the knife and the bow ; I 
 will win you by the strong arm, if the strange 
 warriors stand in the path." " Alas," said the 
 young girl, " you know not my people. They 
 are tall like the pine trees, which rise above other 
 trees ; they look down upon your tribe as the prai 
 rie grass that the buffalo tramples down, and the 
 
ONEA AND ANYTA. 227 
 
 flames wither. The sun is their father the earth 
 their mother and we are called the daughters of 
 the sun. They would dash you into the flames, if 
 you told them of a lodge in the Creek wigwam 
 for a maiden of our tribe." 
 
 " The Creek is a warrior and a chief, Anyta, 
 and he will not die like a woman. He can pluck 
 out the heart of his foe while he begs upon the 
 ground. I fear not for your people's anger, but I 
 love the young maid of the bright eye and sunny 
 face, and would take her as a singing-bird into the 
 lodge of a great warrior. I will stay in your cabin 
 till the warriors come back from the hunt. I am 
 no fox to burrow in the hill side." 
 
 " You will stay to see me perish, then, Onea," 
 said the girl a gleam of melancholy shining 
 from her large dark eyes " for my people will 
 not let me live, when I speak for your life." 
 
 " See you not my bow and arrows, Anyta ? Is 
 not the tomahawk at my shoulder ? Look, my 
 knife is keen the sapling may speak." 
 
 "Your arm is strong, and your heart true, you 
 would say to Anyta; but what is one arm,and what 
 are thy weapons, to a thousand? You must not 
 linger, Onea; we will put forth in the little canoe. 
 I will steer to a quiet hollow, and when thou art 
 
228 ONE A AND ANYTA. 
 
 in safety I will leave thee, and return to thee 
 again." 
 
 IV. 
 
 IT was with difficulty the hot-headed Onea was 
 persuaded to comply with the suggestions of pru 
 dence, and nothing but a consideration for the 
 safety of the maiden had power to restrain his im 
 petuosity. But, assured that, in the unequal con 
 test of which she spoke, his own individual zeal 
 and valor would prove unavailing, he submitted, 
 though with evident ill grace, to her directions. 
 A like scene had, in the meanwhile, taken place 
 between Hillaby and Henamarsa, Anyta's lovely 
 companion, which was attended with pretty nearly 
 the same results. A mutual understanding had the 
 effect of providing for the two warriors in the same 
 manner. Entering once more the canoe in com 
 pany with, and under the guidance of their mis 
 tresses, they took their way down the lake, until 
 they lost sight of the island on which they had 
 first met. They kept on, until, far away from the 
 main route to the habitations of the tribe, they 
 came to a beautiful knoll of green, thickly covered 
 with shrubbery and trees, and so wrapt from the 
 
ONE A AND ANYTA. 229 
 
 passing glance of the wayfarer, lay the circuitous 
 bendings of the stream, as to afford them the safe 
 ty and secrecy they desired. The maidens in 
 formed them that they alone were in possession of 
 the fact of its existence, having been cast upon it 
 by a summer tempest, while wandering over the 
 rippling waters in their birchen canoe. They 
 found it a pleasant dwelling-place. The wild 
 fruits and scented flowers seemed to have purpose 
 ly embellished it for the habitation of content and 
 love, and the singing birds were perpetually car- 
 roling from the branches. The vines, thickly in 
 terwoven above their heads, and covered with 
 leaves, afforded them the desired shelter ; and 
 gladly did they appropriate, and sweetly did they 
 enjoy, its pleasures and its privacies. But the day 
 began to wane, and the approaching evening indi 
 cated the return of the fierce warriors from the 
 chase. With many vows, and a tender and sweet 
 sorrow, the maidens took their departure for the 
 dwellings of their people, leaving the young 
 chiefs to contemplate their new ties, and the novel 
 situation in which they had placed themselves. 
 Nor did the maidens forget their pledges, or prove 
 false to their vows. Day after day did they take 
 their way in the birchen bark, and linger till 
 evening in the society of their beloved. The 
 VOL. i. 20 
 

 230 ONEA AND ANYTA. 
 
 hours passed fleetly in such enjoyments, and happy 
 months of felicity only taught them the beauty 
 of flowers and their scents, and the delights of an 
 attachment before utterly unknown. But the wing 
 of the halcyon ceased to rest on the blessed island. 
 Impatient of inactivity, the warrior Hillaby came 
 one day to the vine-covered cabin of Onea ; his 
 looks were sullen, and his language desponding. 
 He spoke thus : 
 
 " It is not meet, Onea, that the hawk should be 
 clipped of his wings, and the young panther be 
 caged like a deer; let us go home to our people. 
 I am growing an old woman. I have no strength 
 in my sinews my knees are weak." 
 
 " I would go home to my people," replied 
 Onea, " but cannot leave the young fawn who has 
 taken shelter under my protection. And will 
 Hillaby depart from Henamarsa ?" 
 
 " Hillaby will depart from Henamarsa, but Hill 
 aby has the cunning of the serpent, and can bur 
 row like the hill-fox. He will no longer take the 
 dove to his heart, dreading an enemy. He will 
 go home to his people he will gather the young 
 men of the nation, and do battle for Henamarsa. 
 Onea is a brave warrior will he not fight for 
 Anyta ?" 
 
 " Onea would die for Anyta, but he would not 
 
ONEA AND ANYTA. 231 
 
 that Anyta should perish too. Onea would not 
 destroy the people of his wife." 
 
 " Would they not destroy Onea ? They would 
 hang his scalp in the smoke of their wigwams 
 they would shout and dance about the stake when 
 his death-song is singing. If Onea will not depart 
 with Hillaby, he will go alone. He will bring 
 the young warriors ; and the dogs who would keep 
 Henamarsa from his wigwam they shall perish 
 by his knife, and the wild boar shall grow fat upon 
 their carcasses." 
 
 Thus spoke the elder of the two warriors, and 
 vain were the entreaties and arguments employed 
 by Onea to dissuade him from his purpose. The 
 Indian habit was too strong for love, and his sense 
 of national, not less than individual pride, together 
 with the supineness of his present life, contrasted 
 with that restless activity to which he had been 
 brought up and habituated, rendered all persua 
 sion fruitless, and destroyed the force of all argu 
 ments. Deep, seemingly, was the anguish of 
 Henamarsa, when she learned the departure of 
 her lover. A settled fear, however, took posses 
 sion of the bosom of the gentle Anyta, and she 
 sobbed upon the breast of the brave Onea. She 
 felt that their happiness was at an end that the 
 hope of her people was insecure that the home 
 
232 ONEA AND ANYTA. 
 
 of her fathers was about to suffer violation. She 
 saw at once all the danger, and did not hesitate 
 to whisper it in the ear of Onea. All her hope 
 rested in the belief, that Hillaby would never suc 
 ceed in tracing his way back through the intrica 
 cies of the swamp to his own people ; or if he did, 
 that he would not succeed in guiding them to the 
 precise point in its recesses, in which her tribe had 
 found its abode. But Onea knew better the capa 
 cities of a warrior among his people. He seized 
 his bow and equipments, and would have taken 
 the path after Hillaby, determined to quiet the 
 fears of his beloved, even by the death of his late 
 friend and companion ; but the maiden restrained 
 him. She uttered a prayer to the great spirit, for 
 the safety of herself and people, and gave herself 
 up to the wonted happiness of that society for 
 which she was willing to sacrifice every thing. 
 
 V. 
 
 A new trial awaited Onea. One day Anyta 
 came not. The canoe was paddled by Hena- 
 marsa alone. She sought him in his wigwam. 
 She sought to take the place of his beloved in his 
 affections, and would have loaded him with caresses. 
 
ONEA AND ANYTA. 233 
 
 " Where is Anyta ?" asked the young warrior. 
 
 "She is no longer the bride of Onea," was the 
 reply. " She has gone into the wigwam of a war 
 rior of her tribe Henamarsa will love Onea, in 
 the place of Anyta." 
 
 " Onea will love none but Anyta," was the 
 reply. 
 
 " But she is now the wife of Echotee, the young 
 chief. She can no longer be yours. You will 
 never see her more." 
 
 " I will tear her from the cabin of the dog I 
 will drive my hatchet into his skull," said the 
 infuriated warrior. He rejected all the blandish 
 ments of Henamarsa, and taunted her with her in 
 fidelity to Hillaby. She departed in anger from 
 his presence, and he lay troubled with his medita 
 tions as to the course he should pursue with regard 
 to Anyta. His determination was adopted, and 
 at midnight, in a birchen canoe prepared through 
 the day, he took his way over the broad lake to 
 the island. It lay, but not in quiet, stretched out 
 beautifully under the twinkling stars that shone 
 down sweetly upon it. These, however, were not 
 its only lights. Countless blazes illuminated the 
 shores in every direction rand the sound of lively 
 music came upon his ear, with an influence that 
 chafed still more fiercely the raging spirit in his 
 20* 
 
234 ONE A AND ANYTA. 
 
 heart. There were shouts and songs of merri 
 ment and the whirling tread of the impetuous 
 dancers bespoke a feast and a frolic, such as are 
 due, among the Indians, to occasions only of the 
 highest festivity. 
 
 Drawing his bark quietly upon the shore, with 
 out interruption, he went among the revel 
 lers. No one seemed to observe no one ques 
 tioned him. Dressed in habiliments the most fan 
 tastic and irregular, his warlike semblance did not 
 strike the minds of the spectators as at all incon 
 sistent with the sports they were pursuing, and he 
 passed without impediment or check to the great 
 hall, from whence the sounds of most extravagant 
 merriment proceeded. He entered with the throng, 
 in time to witness a solemn ceremonial. There 
 came, at one side, a gallant chief, youthful, hand 
 some, and gracefully erect. He came at the head 
 of a chosen band of youth of his own age, attired 
 in rich furs taken from native animals. Each of 
 them bore a white wand, the symbol of marriage. 
 
 On the other side came a like party of 
 maidens, dressed in robes of the whitest cotton, 
 and bearing wands like the men. What bright 
 creature is it that leads this beautiful array ? Why 
 does the young Muscoghee start wherefore the 
 
ONE A AND ANYTA. . 235 
 
 v 
 
 red spot on the brow of Onea ? The maiden who 
 leads the procession, is his own, the gentle Anyta. 
 Grief was in her face ; her eyes were dewy and 
 sad, and her limbs so trembled that those around 
 gathered to her support. The first impulse of 
 Onea was to rush forward and challenge the array 
 to seize upon the maiden in the presence of the 
 assembly ; and, by the strength of his arm, and 
 the sharp stroke of his hatchet, to assert his claims 
 to the bride in the teeth of every competitor. But 
 the warrior was not less wise than daring. He 
 saw that the maiden was sick at heart, and a fond 
 hope sprung into his own. He determined to wit 
 ness the progress of the ceremony, trusting some 
 thing to events. They dragged her forward to 
 the rite, passive rather than unresisting. The 
 white wands of the two processions, males and fe 
 males, were linked above the heads of Echotee and 
 Anyta the bridal dance was performed around 
 them in circles, and, agreeable to the ritual of the 
 tribe to which they belonged, the marriage was 
 declared complete. And now came on the ban 
 queting. The repast, fruitful of animation, pro 
 ceeded, and the warriors gathered around the 
 board, disposed alternately among the maidens 
 Echotee and Anyta presiding. Onea stood apart. 
 " Who is he who despises our festival why 
 
236 ONEA AND ANYTA. 
 
 does the young man stand away from the board ? 
 The brave man may fight and rejoice he wears 
 not always the war paint he cries not for ever 
 the war-whoop he will come where the singing 
 birds gather, and join in the merriment of the 
 feast." 
 
 Thus cried a strong voice from the company, 
 and all eyes were turned upon Onea. The youth 
 did not shrink from reply 
 
 " The warrior says what is true. It is not for 
 the brave man to scorn the festival he rejoices 
 at the feast. But the stranger comes of a far tribe, 
 and she who carries the wand must bid him wel 
 come, or he sits not at the board with the war 
 riors." 
 
 Anyta slowly rose to perform the duty imposed 
 upon her. She had already recognised the form 
 of her lover, and her step was tremulous and her 
 advances slow. She waved the wand which she 
 held in her hands, and he approached, unhesita 
 tingly, to her side. The Indians manifested little 
 curiosity such a feature of character being incon 
 sistent, in their notion, with the manliness indispen 
 sable to the warrior. Still there was something 
 marked in the habit worn by Onea/which'taught 
 them to believe him a stranger. At such a time, 
 however, the young men, intriguing with their dus- 
 
ONEA AND ANYTA. 237 
 
 ky loves, rendered disguises and deceptions so fre 
 quent, less notice ensued than might otherwise have 
 been the case, and the repast proceeded without far 
 ther interruption. Then followed the bridal proces 
 sion to the future dwelling of the couple. The 
 whole assembly sallied forth, to the sound of dis 
 cordant music, each with a flaming torch within 
 his hand. They frolicked with wild halloos in the 
 train of the bridal pair, waving their flaming 
 torches in every direction. A small stream, con 
 secrated by a thousand such occurrences, rippled 
 along their pathway, upon approaching which, 
 they hurled the lights into its hissing waters, leav 
 ing the entire procession in darkness. This was 
 one part of the wonted and well known frolic. 
 The transition from unaccustomed light to solemn 
 darkness, producing the profoundest confusion, 
 the merriment grew immense. One party stum 
 bled over the other, and all were playing at con 
 traries and cross purposes. Shouts of laughter in 
 every direction, broke the gloom which occasioned 
 it, and proved the perfect success of the jest. 
 
 But, on a sudden, a cry arose that the bride was 
 missing. This, perhaps, contributed more than 
 any thing beside to the good humor of all but the 
 one immediately concerned, and the complaint and 
 clamor of the poor bridegroom met with no sym- 
 
238 ONEA AND ANYTA. 
 
 pathy. His appeals were unheeded his asseve 
 rations received with laughter and shouts of the 
 most deafening description. All mirth, however, 
 must have its end ; and the joke 'grew serious. 
 The bride was really missing, and every thing 
 was in earnest and unmitigated confusion. Vain 
 ly did the warriors search vainly did- the 
 maidens call upon the name of Anyta. She 
 was far beyond the reach of their voices, hur 
 rying down the quiet lake with Onea, to the green 
 island of their early loves and unqualified affec 
 tions. 
 
 There was one who readily guessed the mystery 
 of Anyta's abduction. The heart of Henamarsa 
 had long yearned for that of Onea. The rejec 
 tion of her suit by the scrupulous warrior had 
 changed its temper into bitterness ; and a more 
 vindictive feeling took possession of her breast. 
 She determined to be revenged. 
 
 The warrior lay at sunset in the quiet bower, 
 and he slept with sweet visions in his eyes. But 
 why shrieks the young maiden, and wherefore is the 
 strong hand upon him ? Who are they that bind 
 with thongs the free limbs of the warrior . ? Vainly 
 does he struggle for his release. Many are the 
 foes around him, and deadly the vengeance which 
 they threaten. He looks about for Anyta she 
 
ONEA AND ANYTA. 239 
 
 too is bound with thongs. Above him stood the 
 form of Henamarsa, and he well knew who had be 
 trayed him, yet he uttered no reproach. She looked 
 upon him with an eye of mingled love and triumph, 
 but he gave her no look in return. He knew her not. 
 They took him back to the island, and added 
 to his bonds. They taunted him with words of 
 scorn, and inflicted ignominious blows upon his 
 limbs. They brought him food and bade him eat 
 for the sacrifice ; for that, at the close of the moon, 
 just begun, he should be subjected, with the gentle 
 Anyta, to the torture of fire and the stake. " A 
 Creek warrior will teach you how to die," said 
 Onea. "You are yet children; you know no 
 thing," and he shook his chains in their faces, 
 and spat on them with contempt. 
 
 VI. 
 
 That night a voice came to him in his dungeon. 
 Though he saw not the person, yet he knew that 
 Henamarsa was beside him. 
 
 " Live," said the false one " live, Onea, and 
 I will unloose the cords about thy limbs. I will 
 make thee free of thy keepers I will carry thee 
 to a quiet forest, where my people shall find thee 
 
240 ONE A AND ANYTA. 
 
 never." The warrior spake not, but turned his 
 face from the tempter to the wall of his prison. 
 Vainly did she entreat him, nor forego her prayers, 
 until the first glimmerings of the day light urged 
 her departure. Rising, then, with redoubled fury 
 from his side, where she had thrown herself, she 
 drew a knife before his eyes. The blade gleamed 
 in his sight, but he shrunk not. 
 
 " What," said she, " if I strike thee to the 
 heart, thou that art sterner than the she-wolf, and 
 colder than the stone house of the adder f What 
 if I strike thee for thy scorn, and slay thee like a 
 fox even in his hole ?" 
 
 " Is there a mountain between us, woman, and 
 canst thou not strike?" said the warrior. " Why 
 speakest thou to me ? Do thy will, and hiss no 
 more like a snake in my ears. Thou hast lost 
 thy sting I should not feel the blow from thy 
 knife." 
 
 " Thou art a brave warrior," said the intruder, 
 " and I love thee too well to slay thee. I will seek 
 thee again in thy captivity, and look for thee to 
 listen." 
 
 The last night of the moon had arrived, and 
 the noon of the ensuing day was fixed for the exe 
 cution of Onea and Anyta. Henamarsa came 
 again to the prison of the chief, and love had full 
 
ONEA AND ANYTA. 241 
 
 possession of her soul. She strove to win him to his 
 freedom upon her own conditions. She then prof 
 fered him the same boon upon his own terms ; but he 
 disdained and denied her. Deep was her affliction, 
 and she now deplored her agency in the captivity 
 of the chief. She had thought him less inflexible 
 in his faith ; and, judging of his, by the yielding 
 susceptibilities of her own heart, had falsely be 
 lieved that the service she offered would have 
 sanctioned his adoption of any conditions which 
 she might propose. She now beheld him ready 
 for death, but not for dishonor. She saw him 
 prepared for the last trial, and she sunk down in 
 despair. 
 
 The hour was at hand, and the two were bound 
 to the stake. The torches were blazing around 
 them the crowd assembled the warrior sing 
 ing his song of death, and of many triumphs. But 
 they were not so to perish. Relief and rescue 
 were at hand ; and looking forth upon the lake, 
 which his eyes took in at a glance, Onea beheld a 
 thousand birchen canoes upon its surface, and fly 
 ing to the scene of execution. He knew the war 
 riors who approached. He discerned the war 
 paint of his nation ; he counted the brave men, as 
 they urged forward their vessels, and called them 
 by their names. The warriors who surrounded him 
 
 VOL. i. 21 
 
242 ONEA AND ANYTA. 
 
 rushed, in a. panic,. for their arms but how could 
 they contend with the choice men of the Creeks 
 the masters of a hundred nations ? The conflict 
 was brief, though hotly contended. The people of 
 Onea were triumphant, and the chief and the beau 
 tiful An} ? ta rescued from their perilous situation. 
 The people whom they had conquered were bound 
 with thongs., and the council deliberated upon their 
 destiny. Shall they go free? shall they die ? 
 were the questions somewhat novel, it is true, 
 in the history of the Indians, whose course of 
 triumph was usually marked with indiscriminate 
 massacre. The voice of Onea determined the 
 question, and their lives were spared. 
 
 "Will you be of us and of our nation?" asked 
 the conquerors of the conquered. 
 
 " We are the children of the sun," was the proud 
 reply " and can mingle with no blood but our 
 own." 
 
 "Our young men will not yield the fair lake, 
 and the beautiful island, and the choice fruits." 
 
 " They are worthy of women and children only, 
 and to these we leave them. We will seek else 
 where for the habitations of our people we will 
 go into other lands. It is nothing new to our for 
 tunes that we should do so now. The spoiler has 
 twice been among us, and the places that knew us 
 
ONEA AND ANYTA. 243 
 
 shall know us no more. Are we frt e to depart ? 
 Let not your young 1 men follow to spy out our new 
 habitations. Let them take what is ours now, but 
 let them leave us in quiet hereafter." 
 
 "You are free to go," was the response, "and 
 our young men shall not follow you." 
 
 The .old chiefs led the way, and the young fol 
 lowed, singing a song of exile, to which they 
 claimed to be familiar, and calling themselves the 
 Seminole a name, which, in their language, is 
 supposed to signify, the outcast. All departed, 
 save Anyta, and she dwelt for long years after in 
 the cabin of Onea. 
 
 END OF VOLUME I. 
 
CARL WERNER, 
 
 AN IMAGINATIVE STORY; 
 
 WITH OTHER 
 
 ... - ; 
 
 TALES OF IMAGINATION 
 
 BY THE AUTHOR OP 
 
 "THE YEMASSEE," "GUY RIVERS," 
 "MELLICHAMPE," &c. 
 
 IN TWO VOLUMES, 
 
 VOL. II. 
 
 NEW YORK: 
 GEORGE ADLARD, 46 BROADWAY. 
 
 1838. 
 

 
 ENTERED, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1838, by 
 
 W. GILMORE SIMMS, 
 in the Clerk's Office of the Southern District of New York. 
 
 CRAIGHEAD & ALLEN, PRINTERS, 
 112 Fulton Street. 
 
CONTENTS OF VOLUME II. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 CONRADE WEICKHOFP; 3 
 
 LOGOOCHIE, : . . . . 83 
 
 JOCASSEE, 131 
 
 THE CHEROKEE EMBASSAGE 175 
 
^ 
 
CONRADE WEICKHOFF. 
 
 VOL, II. 
 
CONRADE WEICKHOFF. 
 
 I. 
 
 IT was the easiest thing in the world for Rodolph 
 Steinmyer to become enamored of the fair Bertha, 
 the only daughter of the Baron Staremberg. It 
 was not so easy a matter to obtain the approval of 
 the proud old baron. Rodolph was noble, of ex 
 cellent family ; but what is nobility without money ? 
 This was the question with the baron the lead 
 ing question in every reference which he made to 
 the pretensions of Rodolph to his daughter's hand. 
 Would nobility, merely, keep a castle, find retain 
 ers, man the walls against the enemy, or even 
 not to descend too hurriedly furnish the table 
 and provide the daily cheer ? Manifestly, it could 
 not ; and so the noble lineage of Rodolph Stein 
 myer did not go far toward commending him in 
 the sight of the sturdy father of his sweetheart. It 
 
4 CONRADE WEICKHOFF. 
 
 rather made against him ; as it called for that con 
 sideration in society, and rendered necessary those 
 shows of place and pretension, which could never 
 be expected of one not of high birth ; and which, 
 in the event of Rodolph becoming his son-in-law, 
 would only have the effect of adding an encum 
 brance of great amount to his own already encum 
 bered establishment. The baron was quite as 
 poor as he was proud ; and this probably was, in 
 all respects, a very proper consideration. It was 
 necessary that Bertha should re-establish the old 
 house. The castle wanted repairs ; and Bertha's 
 eyes were looked to, whenever it became a ques 
 tion how money should be raised for the purpose. 
 The castle wanted furniture ; and Bertha's lips, it 
 was thought, might do much toward fitting it up. 
 Bertha's beauties, in short, were the only treasures 
 to which the old baron could possibly refer, when 
 ever he contemplated any of the many difficult, 
 but absolutely necessary, expenditures of his house 
 hold. To throw them away upon a beggar to 
 give Bertha to Rodolph, was, therefore, a matter 
 entirely out of the question. It is true, the baron 
 knew well enough how fondly the two loved each 
 other ; but what of that ? Is the love of a young 
 girl to be considered, even for a moment, in oppo- 
 
CONRADE WEICKHOFF. 
 
 sition to the cupidity or caprice of her relations ? 
 It would be exceedingly foolish to suppose so. 
 
 II. 
 
 Bertha thought otherwise. She loved Rodolph 
 very much ; quite as much, indeed, as he loved 
 her. They seemed formed entirely for each other ; 
 and never were two young, thoughtless hearts, so 
 mutually devoted. Day after day did their eyes 
 meet, and their thoughts mingle ; and day after 
 day increased their mutual dependence with their 
 passion. It is true, Rodolph was poor, but Bertha 
 never thought of that. His garments were none 
 of the best, but they were worn by Rodolph. His 
 castle was old, unfurnished, untenanted, and he 
 had no cattle. But then, she never felt any wants 
 when with Rodolph, and she never thought of any 
 want but himself, when he was absent. It was 
 well for her, perhaps, that she had a papa who was 
 more thoughtful. The baron's consideration am 
 ply atoned for the daughter's thoughtlessness. If 
 she thought only of Rodolph he thought no 
 thing of Rodolph. If she thought nothing of the 
 possessions of her lover -the old baron consi- 
 1* 
 
CONRADE WEICKHOFF. 
 
 dered nothing else. Between the two, therefore, 
 the subject, on all sides, was amply investigated. 
 
 in. 
 
 It was not the good fortune of Bertha to know 
 any thing of her father's concern in this matter, 
 until long after he had gravely considered it. But 
 one day there came a new wooer to the castle of 
 Staremberg. This was a bachelor baron, whom 
 Bertha had never seen before, and who dwelt in 
 a noble palace at some little distance. She, poor 
 girl, never dreamed of the object of his visit; but 
 Rodolph was a little more suspicious. He no 
 sooner heard of it than he set off, post haste, for Sta 
 remberg castle. He came in a desperate hurry, 
 determined to put his affaire dw cceur to a final 
 issue. His manner indicated no little excitement. 
 He thrust aside, one after another, the sluggish 
 retainers, in a most unaccustomed and most unbe 
 coming manner ; and even the bachelor baron, 
 himself, Baron Brickelewacksikow, whose name 
 the reader will please remember in future, without 
 requiring us to write it happening to stand bolt 
 upright in the very passage through which the 
 youth was pushing his headlong way, was tumbled 
 
CONRADE WEICKHOFF. 
 
 incontinently against the wall, much to the detri 
 ment of his knees and shoulders, and the discom 
 fiture of his spirit. Rodolph was evidently in a 
 hurry. 
 
 IV. 
 
 In the presence of the Baron and Baroness Sta- 
 remberg, Bertha very judiciously being absent, 
 the youthful Rodolph found himself much sooner 
 than he expected. He certainly felt, as he looked 
 upon their distinct faces, that he need not have 
 been in such an exceeding hurry. The old baron 
 looked quite as grim as the Saracen that his grand 
 father slew in the fifth crusade, the reeking head 
 of whom was painted in gigantic lines upon the 
 trembling tapestry before them ; the baroness, if 
 possible, more outrageously grim, and not a whit 
 less unhandsome than her liege lord, sat like a 
 stone fortress of exceeding strength and dimen 
 sions, upright in his way. She looked impene 
 trable as a dozen dungeons. Rodolph was no 
 longer in a hurry. He really began to wonder 
 what he had come for ; he certainly had not the 
 gift of languages at that moment, and would if 
 he had known any thing about that burning and 
 
8 CONRADE WEICKHOFF. 
 
 shining light, at this early period have given 
 the world for only half an hour's preliminary con 
 versation with the Reverend Edward Irving. 
 
 V. 
 
 The conference was sooner ended than began. 
 It was a desperate necessity ; and, with a violent 
 effort, Rodolph contrived to find his parts of speech, 
 though he still stammered and stuttered most an- 
 noyingly. But when he had said his say, and the 
 obtuse senses of his two arbiters had at length ap 
 preciated his object, there was a joint burst of as 
 tonishment, almost amounting to horror, from 
 their several lips, at the atrocious insolence of his 
 demand : 
 
 " What ! do you, Rodolph Steinmyer, dare to 
 ask of me in marriage the hand of lady Bertha of 
 Starernberg ?" exclaimed the baron. 
 
 " My daughter !" shrieked the baroness, in a 
 fit of holy horror. 
 
 " Presumption !" exclaimed the baron. 
 
 "Blasphemy!" groaned the baroness. And 
 they looked to one another, and they looked to 
 the confounded youth, and they looked to the 
 heavens and to the earth, and then they turned 
 
CONRADE WEICKHOFF. 9 
 
 simultaneously again upon the pleader, and de 
 manded to know if they had heard him rightly. 
 They were willing to believe that they might have 
 misunderstood him. 
 
 VI. 
 
 But the youth had plucked up courage during 
 the brief and sudden progress of their indignation. 
 With an air of greater resolution than before, he 
 repeated his demand; and was just about to give 
 sundry good reasons why he should be considered 
 the properest person in the world to take charge 
 of a maiden so young and interesting as Bertha of 
 Staremberg, when the baron, with more coolness 
 and composure perhaps, too, with something 
 more of condescension in his manner proceeded 
 to interrupt him : 
 
 " Say no more, Rodolph ; say no more. You 
 are a good youth, and I knew your father. He 
 was my most intimate friend, and I loved him very 
 much very much, Rodolph. I love you too, 
 Rodolph ; you are a good youth, but you cannot 
 have Bertha." 
 
 "No ; you cannot have my daughter," cried the 
 old lady. 
 
10 CONRADE WEICKHOFF. 
 
 " No ; you cannot have our daughter," said the 
 baron. 
 
 " I am shocked," said the baroness, " that you 
 ever thought that you could have my daughter." 
 
 " It is, indeed, very surprising, Rodolph, that 
 you should have fallen into such an error," said 
 the baron ; "but now that I have explained it, I 
 trust that you will give up such a foolish, such an 
 extravagant idea." 
 
 " Such an audacious such an impious idea 
 my daughter!" exclaimed Lady Staremberg, with 
 an echo to her husband like that of Killarney. 
 
 " Never !" exclaimed the youth, with a voice of 
 thunder. "Never! Give up Bertha? Better 
 tell me to give up life." 
 
 " Ay, and that might be advisable, when there's 
 no money. Life, without money, is but a bag 
 gage wagon, on a long march, without stores or 
 provisions," very coolly responded the baron ; 
 " Bertha you can never have, unless your castle is 
 manned, and repaired, and furnished, and you can 
 show me wealth like that of baron the baron 
 with the big name to whom, if he is pleased to 
 accept her, I propose to give her hand. Produce 
 proofs of wealth like his, Rodolph, and, as I loved 
 your father and love you, I shall give you a deci 
 ded preference." 
 
CONRADE WEICKHOFF. 11 
 
 The youth, muttering curses, hurried away in 
 despair, bent upon carrying up his appeal to a 
 gentler, if not a higher court. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Rodolph flew instantly to Bertha, with a degree 
 of impatience that might have seemed less than 
 respectful, but that it was duly mixed up with a 
 sufficient share of tenderness ; he unfolded his 
 cause of difficulty, related his love at length, re 
 counted the scene with her parents, and resolutely 
 declared that he neither would nor could live with 
 out her. The poor girl was sufficiently over 
 whelmed with the novel character of her situation. 
 She had never deliberated much upon the condi 
 tion of her heart, which, like a gipsey's child, had 
 been allowed all along to do just what it pleased; 
 and the sudden and unaccustomed contraction of 
 all its liberties, just now threatened it, had an effect 
 not less paralyzing on her than it was maddening 
 to him. She knew not how to consider her afflic 
 tion, or in which way to turn first. It was now, 
 for the first time, that Rodolph had declared him 
 self; the words were strangely new to her ears, 
 but somehow they came naturally enough, and as 
 
12 CONRADE WEICKHOFF. 
 
 a thing of course, to her heart. That heart fully 
 responded to them ; and, certainly, she loved the 
 youth quite as much as it was possible for her, and 
 proper for a young maiden of seventeen, to love. 
 The strength of her attachment to the youth be 
 came fully evident to herself, when she understood 
 the intention of her parents to give her to the ba 
 ron with a long name. She confessed how much 
 she loved him ; shed a world of tears ; showed by 
 look, word, and action, that she was miserable at 
 the thought of marrying another ; and when the 
 youth, flattered with these manifestations, was bold 
 enough to propose that she should avail herself of 
 the present opportunity to change the air of her 
 father's castle for that of his own, which he assured 
 her was far more likely to be beneficial to her 
 health, to his great surprise, she flatly refused him. 
 Bertha was a good child ; and the holy law which 
 teaches us to love father and mother, in order that 
 our days may be long in the land, was not less a 
 feeling and an instinct in her heart, than a princi 
 ple in her mind. Her soul was too pure, too se 
 cure in its natural whiteness, to permit even love 
 to obtain a triumph over its sense of duty. 
 
CONRADE WEICKHOFF. 
 
 13 
 
 vni. 
 
 Rodolph was in despair. Never was lover 
 more eloquent and impassioned. 
 
 " And you will not, Bertha ?" 
 
 " I dare not, Rodolph." 
 
 " What ! you will consent to this sacrifice. You 
 ,will let them bind you to that old dotard, whom 
 you hate. You will let them tear you from the 
 arms of the man you profess to love " 
 
 " Whom I do love, Rodolph," was the gentle 
 chiding. 
 
 ." Oh ! Bertha, how can you consent to this ? 
 How can you submit to be made a thing of barter ; 
 of a mercenary love of wealth ? Think, my be 
 loved, of the long years before us both years of 
 bliss or years of blight, simply as you shall decree 
 at this moment. Can you hesitate if you love ? 
 Can you hesitate if you think . ? It cannot be very 
 long before father and mother will both depart ; 
 and then,- dear Bertha, where then will be 
 your consolation ? Nowhere, but in the bosom of 
 a kindred love. You cannot hesitate. You owe 
 it to me, to yourself, to all ; to your promises and 
 pledges of the past ; to your hopes of the future ; 
 
 VOL. II. 2 
 
14 CONRADE WEICKHOFF. 
 
 to love, to truth ; for how can you promise, love 
 to him, having a love for me ? how can he believe 
 it, even should you falsely declare it? It is a 
 higher duty which you owe to heaven infinitely 
 beyond that due to your parents to speak the 
 truth always, and more particularly where the af 
 fections, our most valuable wealth, are so deeply 
 interested. Say to me, then, that you will be 
 mine. Fly with me now. In another hour the 
 opportunity may be lost, and never return to us 
 again. In another hour, dearest Bertha, tyranny, 
 which is the foe to love, may sacrifice us both on 
 the altar of worldly interest. We shall be torn 
 apart, and separated for ever." 
 
 Rodolph was eloquent, but the maiden was 
 most firm. To the young mind, taught properly, 
 there is no consideration so revolting as the diso 
 bedience of a child ; and it must have been the 
 worst of all parental oppression, that of actual vio 
 lence, which could have made Bertha of Starem- 
 berg take any step in opposition to the will of her 
 father. She sighed and sorrowed unaffectedly ; 
 repeated her vows of love to Rodolph, and pro 
 mised him eternal faith ; but the youth was not to 
 be satisfied after this fashion. He renewed his so 
 licitations ; and it was only when he had exhaust 
 ed all his arguments, entreaties, and breath toge- 
 
CONRADE WEICKHOFF. 15 
 
 ther, that he tore himself away from her restrain 
 ing arms, and rushing forth from the castle of 
 Staremberg in a fit of despair, hastened furiously 
 to a neighboring wood, in a paroxysm which 
 seemed td promise the most desperate results. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Rodolph sought the wood of the Black Forest 
 in no enviable temper. He buried himself in its 
 deepest recesses ; for his thoughts were dark like 
 its own glooms, and horrible, like the numerous 
 spectral images by which tradition had tenanted 
 them. He was of a quick and irritable disposi 
 tion ; and he had not been sufficiently tempered 
 by the vicissitudes of life to bear meekly and qui 
 etly with any contradiction. The opposition of 
 Bertha's parents was bad enough ; but he had 
 never anticipated any from herself. That she 
 should refuse at first was to be expected ; but that 
 she should continue to deny to the last, was no 
 less unreasonable than unmaidenlike ; and with 
 half a resolution to do what he was about to do, 
 in her despite, as well as in his own despair, he 
 drew the long keen hunter's knife from his girdle, 
 elevated its blade sufficiently in air to make the 
 
16 CONRADE WEICKHOFF. 
 
 descending blow fatal, and in another instant it 
 would have found its sheath in his heart, when, 
 just in the nick of time, his arm was arrested by a 
 grasp from behind. He turned fiercely upon the 
 unwelcome intruder, and shrank back in horror 
 from the glance that met his own. Whom did he 
 see ? What did he see ? Was it real, or was it 
 only the spectre of his old comrade, the gallant 
 Conrade Weickhoff, who was reported to have 
 perished at sea full three years before f 
 
 " Conrade Weickhoff!" exclaimed the youth, 
 half in horror, half in inquiry. 
 
 " Rodolph Steinmyer," was the response of the 
 stranger, who smiled in the most natural manner 
 in the world as he pronounced the name. 
 
 " Are you my friend Conrade ?" demanded 
 Rodolph. 
 
 " More like, than you are to Rodolph Stein 
 myer," was the reply. 
 
 " And living ?" 
 
 " Did you not feel my grasp ? Was it so light 
 that you have need to ask the question . ? " 
 
 " Whence came you, Conrade ? Where have 
 you been ? They said that you were drowned at 
 sea ; and they have mourned for you as one no 
 longer of earth." 
 
 A wild laugh, and a bright sarcastic twinkle of 
 
CONRADE WEICKHOFF. 17 
 
 the eye, were the only answer which, for the mo 
 ment, the new comer gave to the rapid inquiries 
 of the youth. He seemed to chuckle pleasantly 
 at the idea of being a dead man ; and there was 
 something exceedingly irreverent so Rodolph 
 thought in the manner 'of his ancient comrade, 
 while dwelling upon this topic. But Conrade 
 was always a wild fellow, whom nobody could 
 manage, and who was reported, indeed, to have 
 given himself over to studies and practices of diabo 
 lism. So general was the opinion among his friends, 
 that when the news came of his death by sea, the 
 remark was frequent among them, that the devil 
 had reason to congratulate himself upon the acqui 
 sition of a new companion, so much after the fa 
 shion of his own heart. 
 
 X. 
 
 The first surprise being over, and Rodolph be 
 ing now satisfied that it was Conrade himself a 
 person of very substantial flesh and blood, and no 
 ghost that stood before him, the conversation 
 naturally turned upon the desperate act which 
 Rodolph had been about to commit, when his 
 friend so opportunely interrupted him. 
 
18 CONRADE WEICKHOFF. 
 
 "What could have persuaded you to this, Ro- 
 dolph 1 what motive for this rashness ?" was the 
 demand of Conrade. 
 
 The youth told his* story, and Conrade chuck 
 led so heartily that the lover grew indignant. 
 
 " Why, what the d 1 do you find in it to laugh 
 at ?" he demanded fiercely. 
 
 " Be not rash," said the other ; " and, I pray 
 you, take not your neighbor's name in vain. The 
 devil may be much nearer to you than you ima 
 gine. If I laugh, I mean no offence, you may be 
 sure. I only laugh at the folly of love, which so 
 beguiles and misleads men of otherwise very ex 
 cellent understanding. Did you hope to get the 
 girl by cutting your throat?" 
 
 " Not to get her, surely ; but to live without her 
 would be worse than death." 
 
 " Perhaps so ; but I think not. Life is com 
 fortable, always provided you have enough of it ; 
 and that a man may always have, if he will look 
 for it where it may be found. But what do you 
 intend now to do ? I have kept you from death 
 once ; when I turn my back, you will whip out 
 your cold steel again, and try the thing over, and 
 it may be, another time I shall come a moment or 
 two too late." 
 
 " Perhaps," said Rodolph, with some phlegm. 
 
CONRADE WEICKHOFF. 19 
 
 " Perhaps is no answer to a friend," said the 
 other, taking his hand affectionately. " Be more 
 like yourself; let old times begin again. Let us 
 once more be true friends to* each other ; for> be 
 lieve me, Rodolph, though time has been between 
 us, and we have been so long separated, I feel to 
 ward you as ever." 
 
 Rodolph could not reply, but he returned the 
 gentle squeeze of his friend's hand, and the tears 
 filled his eyes. 
 
 "You weep, Rodolph, and I am answered," 
 said the other. "I see you have the same heart 
 as of old. I, too, have been left unchanged in all 
 my trials. We are again friends." 
 
 They embraced affectionately, and after a little 
 interval given up to the renewal of former pledges, 
 after the picturesque and sentimental manner com 
 mon, even at that early period, among the Ger 
 man youth, they again began to discourse about 
 the purposed deed of Rodolph, and the causes 
 which had led to it. A few moments were passed 
 by Conrade in silence ; then, abruptly speaking, 
 he demanded : 
 
 "And you are required to man your castle, re 
 fit and repair it, and altogether exhibit resources 
 such as the baron with a long name f" 
 
20 CONRADE WEICKHOFF. 
 
 The youth sighed forth a melancholy affirma 
 tive. 
 
 "You shall do it," said the other. 
 
 Rodolph looked up angrily, as if he had been 
 laughed at. 
 
 " You shall do it." 
 
 " How ?" 
 
 "I will help you to fortune." 
 
 "You?" 
 
 Yes I Conrade Weickhoff. It shall be 
 the first proof which I will give you that my friend 
 ship for you is the same that it ever was. I am able 
 to do what I promise. I am able to give you the 
 means to go forth as proudly as your baron with a 
 long name, and to exhibit wealth even more ex 
 tensive. We shall satisfy Bertha's parents, and 
 you shall have the maiden without delay." 
 
 Rodolph looked on his friend in silent wonder 
 ment. He thought him dreaming. He knew 
 that Conrade's family had been quite as destitute 
 as his own. Where could he have got his new 
 ability to do what he promised. He must surely 
 be mad, thought Rodolph ; but when he looked 
 at Conrade, never did face seem more confident 
 and earnest. The expression of his countenance 
 was conclusive. 
 
 " Speak out," said Rodolph, impetuously ; " tell 
 
CONRADE WEICKHOFF. 21 
 
 me all ; explain to me the sources of your ability , 
 and torture me no longer with a hope so extrava 
 gant as to seem desperate and foolish. Let me 
 hear upon what you build, that I may know whe 
 ther it be worth while to live for it or not." 
 
 " It is always worth one's while to live, so long 
 as there are maidens like Bertha Staremberg to 
 live with. I know the maiden ; she is a heaven 
 in herself; and were it not, dear Rodolph, for my 
 friendship, I should certainly seek her love on my 
 own account." 
 
 " Ha !" said Rodolph, furiously. 
 
 But the other checked him in his paroxysm. 
 
 " Fear nothing, I am not your rival. I will 
 help you to Bertha ; the means are even now in 
 your own pctyer, and I will disclose them to you. 
 But come apart with me to some pleasant place, 
 where we may sit while talking. There is, or 
 should be, an old abbey in this neighborhood, 
 where I have often rambled. The grave stone of 
 an armed knight shall yield us a pleasant seat, and 
 then we can talk more freely. I hate fatigue ; 
 and standing up when one can sit, is like submit 
 ting to bondage when one can fly. The sense of 
 restraint is, of all others, the most hateful to me ; 
 and, when I can help, I will have none of it. 
 Come." 
 
22 CONRADE WEICKHOFF. 
 
 XI. 
 
 They went to a spot more secluded in the forest, 
 and there they found an old abbey church, which 
 Rodolph did not remember ever to have seen be 
 fore. With every spot of it, however, his compa 
 nion seemed familiar ; he talked of this family bu 
 rial place and of that, and began to give a long 
 history of the knight whose crossed legs in mar 
 ble they were then sitting upon, and he might 
 have gone into details of a thousand years for 
 he betrayed a strange familiarity with past events 
 had not Rodolph, with a more selfish object, 
 hurriedly interrupted him. Conrade laughed 
 heartily at the impatience of his companion, and 
 his pale features were full of a pleasantly satirical 
 expression, and his eyes danced with a wild, strange 
 glare, as he looked quizzingly upon the feverish 
 restlessness of the lover ; but he saw that it would 
 not do to tax the youth's temper too far, and so 
 he proceeded quietly to his purposed explanation. 
 
 " You have heard of the late Count Oberfeldt 
 of Manfrein ?" he demanded. 
 
 "The late Count Oberfeldt? What! is he 
 dead ?" responded Rodolph. 
 
CONRADE WEICKHOFF. 23 
 
 " Died last night," was the reply. 
 
 " Why, he was quite well I saw him on the 
 edge of the forest, riding with a stranger, only 
 two days ago. He must have died suddenly." 
 
 " Quite as suddenly as a sharp knife, such as 
 that you were about to use an hour ago, could 
 carry him off, hurriedly applied to the carotid." 
 
 " Murdered ?" 
 
 " No ; he committed suicide." 
 
 " Is it possible? He was always a bad man!" 
 remarked Rodolph, quite thoughtlessly and inno 
 cently. 
 
 " Ahem !" responded the other. " Bad or good, 
 I say riot. He was a wild, irregular, strange sort 
 of person, whose pleasures and pursuits differed 
 materially from those of tlfe rest of the world. It 
 is not for us to say whether he was right or wrong 
 in their adoption. His accountability is not to 
 us, and so far the subject is foreign to our dis 
 course. You knew him, Rodolph ?" 
 
 The question was answered affirmatively. 
 
 " You know that his wealth was great ?" 
 
 Yes." 
 
 " A dozen different castles fine domains every 
 where well provided ; retainers in abundance ; 
 good wines and wealth in profusion. These were 
 his, and, strange to say, though living a profli- 
 
24 CONRADE WEICKHOFF. 
 
 gate life, he died having them all in his posses 
 sion." 
 
 " Stranger still," remarked Rodolph, " that, 
 having them in possession, he should voluntarily 
 have given them up." 
 
 "Perhaps not. Satiety is a worse death than 
 the knife. It is the death of that necessary pro 
 vocative, without which life must always stagnate. 
 Wise men pray that they should never have all 
 their desires satisfied. Oberfeldt was not a wise 
 man. His desires were narrowed to his animal 
 propensities, aud he was unfortunate enough to 
 grasp and gain all that he desired. They tired him 
 out in the end, and grew into a fatigue, so he cut 
 the carotid, and got rid of them." 
 
 " The d 1 has him!" said Rodolph, coolly. 
 " That 's none of our business," said the other, 
 warmly; <( and let me advise you, that to speak 
 of persons with whom our own acquaintance is 
 imperfect, is not always to do them justice. You 
 may discover that truth for yourself in time ; for 
 the present, let us talk of your own affairs, and 
 then of Oberfeldt' s, so far as they may concern 
 you." 
 
 " But how can the affairs of Oberfeldt concern 
 me? I see not that," said Rodolph, impatiently. 
 " But you shall see, when you have heard. The 
 
CONRADE WEICKHOFF. 25 
 
 great wealth of Oberfeldt is to be divided, and you 
 are, if you desire it, one of his legatees." 
 
 " If I desire it !" exclaimed Rodolph, hastily ; 
 " speak out, my friend. Wealth to me is every 
 thing at this moment ; and though I see not why 
 Oberfeldt should have left me any of his, I am not 
 unwilling to avail myself of his bequest. I should 
 not reject one from the d 1 himself." 
 
 " You are only too accommodating," said the 
 other, gravely. " But hear. You are one of his 
 heirs, if you desire it. He was a singular crea 
 ture, and has made a singular disposition of his 
 property. He has left it subject to division, 
 among any dozen men who will pledge themselves 
 to follow his example " 
 
 " What ! cut their throats ?" 
 
 " Even so ; but after a peculiar plan. He does 
 not desire them to cut their throats on the instant, 
 or together. He requires only one amateur at a 
 time. Once a year, the anniversary of his own 
 suicide, is to be celebrated by a selection from 
 among his followers his college, as he calls them 
 and the martyr is to be chosen by lot." 
 
 " Monstrous idea !" said Rodolph. 
 
 "Very !" responded the other. 
 
 " And what then ?" said Rodolph. 
 
 " Why, only this," was the reply ; " 1 have de- 
 
 VOL. II. 3 
 
26 
 
 CONRADE WEICKHOFF. 
 
 termined to avail myself of all the advantages of 
 Oberfeldt's will. I will become one of his devi 
 sees. I will get one of his fine castles. I will 
 get his manors and retainers, his stock and his 
 treasure. I will take all that the bequest bestows, 
 I am fond of money, for its power and its purpo 
 ses. I have none of my own. It matters not to 
 me whether I die by my own hand, the hand of 
 my enemy, or the worst of all hands, that of star 
 vation. Life is not life, unless for what it yields 
 us. I do not deprive myself of life, if I lose no 
 thing when I perish ; and at present I have no 
 thing to lose. I go to-night, with others, to Man- 
 frien castle. I swear to the performance of all the 
 conditions exacted by the will ; I jump into my 
 new possessions, and hasten to their enjoyment. 
 I will begin to live from that hour; heretofore I 
 have not lived it is high time that I should. I 
 counsel you to do likewise. Go with me to 
 night; swear with me to the conditions; avail 
 yourself of the wealth they give you, and be happy 
 while you may." 
 
 " Great heaven !" exclaimed the other : " How 
 can you advise me thus, Conrade ? how can you 
 determine thus yourself ? What ! pledge myself 
 to commit suicide ?" 
 
 " What were you but just now about to do," 
 demanded the other, with a sneer, " when I came 
 
CONRADE WEICKHOFF. 27 
 
 up so happily, and held back your hand? Is the 
 present plan worse ? Is it not better ; far better, 
 in all respects f You get something now for the 
 commission of the act, when, before, you could 
 have derived no advantage from it. You get the 
 very wealth you wanted ; you get the woman you 
 love, who else would be lost to you for ever. Can. 
 you hesitate ?" 
 
 Rodolph bent down his head. It sank on his 
 bosom despondingly. The thick drops of perspi 
 ration stood upon his brow, for a great mental 
 strife was going on within. 
 
 " Think," said the tempter, " think what you 
 will gain wealth, Bertha. Think what you 
 will lose Bertha, wealth all that would be 
 worth living for." 
 
 Rodolph was silent ; the other continued : 
 
 " And she will be the victim, not less than 
 yourself; the old baron with the long name will 
 bear her off in triumph. She will be immured in 
 his castle ; her arms will enfold him in their embra 
 ces ; his coarse lips will riot upon the sweet inno 
 cence of hers ; he " 
 
 "No more no more," exclaimed the despe 
 rate youth, tossing his hands toward heaven ; " I 
 will go with you to-night ; I will swear to the 
 conditions. Bertha shall be mine, and mine only. 
 
28 CONRADE WEICKHOFF. 
 
 I cannot live without her; I cannot bear that she 
 should be the bride of another." 
 
 XII. 
 
 That night the ceremonial was an awful one in 
 the great hall of Oberfeldt's castle. The body of 
 the suicide lay in state in the centre of the apart 
 ment, which was illuminated with an intense glare, 
 shooting out from strangely large torches, borne 
 up by sable figures standing in its many niches 
 and embrasures. The corpse presented a sight 
 horrid from its wounds, and hellish from it expres 
 sion. The head had been nearly severed from 
 the shoulders, by the desperate stroke which the 
 deceased had given himself. The eyes were un 
 closed ; the lids seemed to have been drawn in 
 under the brows, and the whites gleamed out with 
 a meteoric lustre, through the filmy humidity with 
 which death had wrapped them. The testamen 
 tary document lay upon the breast of the deceas 
 ed. His hand, still grasping the fatal knife, with 
 all the bloody traces of the deed yet upon it, rest 
 ed upon the paper. Around him stood the per 
 sons who were prepared to avail themselves of the 
 dreadful advantages of the will before them. Their 
 
CONRADE WEiCKHOFF. 29 
 
 number was completed upon the entrance of Ro- 
 dolph and his friend. The lover looked upon 
 the scene with horror ; but he had nerved himself 
 to the deed. He gazed vacantly upon his asso 
 ciates ; and his passing scrutiny did not serve to 
 reconcile him in any great degree to the step 
 which he was about to take. With the exception 
 of his friend Weickhoff, he saw none among the 
 assembled college before him who had any claim 
 to gentility. They were either debauchees, or 
 gamblers, spendthrifts, and wretches who fasten 
 themselves as a disease upon society, and contri 
 bute to the corruption of that body upon which 
 they are engrafted. But he had no time for re 
 flection. Weickhoff led the way, and by his auda 
 city evidently controlled the rest. He drew the 
 document from the grasp of the suicide, and with 
 out the pause of a second, dashed down his sig 
 nature in bloody characters at the foot of the con 
 ditional pledge which followed the testament, and 
 to which its reference was special, and done after 
 the most approved legal requisitions of those ages. 
 The example was soon followed by the rest ; and 
 signature after signature appeared upon the fatal 
 sheet, until Rodolph was the only one left who 
 had yet to sign. He lingered, and a light touch 
 of a finger pressed upon his wrist. It went like 
 
 3* 
 
30 CONRADE WEICKHOFF. 
 
 a cold wind into the artery beneath. He looked 
 up in a tremor, and his eyes met those of Weick- 
 hoff. What a glance did they encounter ! So 
 bright, so cold ; so ironical, yet so conciliating ; 
 such a sneer, yet such a smile. There was a mad 
 prompter in the heart of the youth at that moment, 
 and he rushed forward to the body of the dead 
 man ; he clutched the pen in his fingers, and began 
 writing the letters of his name after the rest. As 
 he wrote, to his great horror and suprise, the same 
 letters, as he severally wrote than, appeared one 
 after the other in a blank space in the body of the 
 instrument above. A sickness seized upon his 
 heart ; but he desperately proceeded. The deed 
 was done the name written the contract was 
 completed ; and, in the next moment, he felt him 
 self clasped in the arms of Weickhoff. 
 
 " Now, indeed, Rodolph, my friend, you are 
 mine," was the exclamation of his comrade. What 
 a strength seemed in the nerves of Weickhoff! 
 The embrace nearly stifled him ; and yet Weick 
 hoff was slender in the extreme ; pale, even to 
 wanness ; and with a general air of feebleness, 
 which looked rather like disease than stength or 
 life. Had Rodolph been asked the question be 
 fore, he wonld have unhesitatingly said that his 
 own were infinitely greater than the physical pow- 
 
CONRADE WEICKHOFF, 
 
 31 
 
 crs of Weickhoff; yet now he seemed but an in 
 fant in his grasp. But Weickhoff had been a tra 
 veller, and llodolph naturally enough concluded 
 that he had acquired hardihood by trial and ad 
 venture. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Revelry of all sorts, indulgences the most wild, 
 excesses the most licentious, followed the conclu 
 sion of the dreadful ceremonial in the castle of 
 Oberfeldt. A luxurious banquet was prepared, 
 and every temptation of gross and festering de 
 bauch, common to that era, was provided and 
 partaken of by that melancholy circle of uncon 
 genial confederates. The terms of the will were 
 read to them by Conrade, who took a leading part 
 in their festivities. But, though of appalling and 
 curious nature, there was but one of all the col 
 lege that heeded its conditions. That was Ro- 
 dolph. He listened in a vague sort of conscious 
 ness. His feelings and thoughts were too various 
 and crowded to suffer him to think correctly ; and 
 the emotions with which he felt himself seized, were 
 rather those of a young, unsophisticated heart, 
 finding itself, for the first time, in a novel and 
 
32 CONRADE WEICKHOPF. 
 
 strange situation, than of a thinking mind engag 
 ed in analyzing it. Conrade discovered this, and 
 plied all his arts, which were neither mean nor 
 few, in order to dissipate the lover's melancholy. 
 He succeeded in part. He dwelt with ridicule 
 upon the passages of the will which seemed most 
 to have impressed the youth ; then adroitly paint 
 ing the happiness which must follow the possession 
 of the fortune, in giving Bertha to his arms, he 
 had the satisfaction to discover that, by degrees, 
 the moody apprehensions of the youth wore ra 
 pidly away. But still Rodolph could not relish 
 the associates around him, and with whom he found 
 himself, by his own act, associated in so strange a 
 brotherhood. Men he would have been ashamed 
 to know before, he now found himself connected 
 with in life and death. That death, too, now that 
 he was in the possession of the means of life, 
 seemed to have acquired terrors which it had not 
 some few hours ago. He had never asked him 
 self the difference of situation and mind between 
 the desperately hopeless man, and him to whom 
 the world is full of hope and promise. He was 
 yet to learn this difference. The glozing lips of 
 the tempter had persuaded him too readily to be 
 lieve that suicide at one moment and at another 
 was the same thing to the same person, and he had 
 
CONRADE WEICKHOFF. 33 
 
 admitted too readily a proposition so false, as one 
 entirely true. There are times when it is not dif 
 ficult to part with life alas ! how often is it the 
 case that we would rather give up heaven itself 
 than lose it ! 
 
 XIV. 
 
 At a late hour the college separated. The sit 
 ting was broken up, and the several members pre 
 pared to retire to the spoils and possessions which 
 the will of Oberfeldt had assigned them. The 
 dangers and conditions of that will ; the pledges 
 of terror which they had made filled as they 
 were with wine and frolic, and gloating on the vast 
 wealth placed within their enjoyment gave them 
 but little concern. Their next celebration was 
 required to be held at the same place, on the same 
 night of the ensuing year. A year was secured 
 to them of licentious and unrestrained enjoyment ; 
 and to most of them a new world of happiness 
 was opened upon them by this heretofore unknown 
 privilege. They gave themselves but little con 
 cern about the one of their number who 'must be 
 chosen for the next year's sacrifice. It was enough 
 that they had a bond of fate for that period of time. 
 
34 COXRADE WEICKHOFF. 
 
 Reckless in their lives before, they were not less 
 so in reference to the hour of their death. They 
 could lose but little, as life had never fairly been 
 possessed by any among them. 
 
 The thoughts of Rodolph troubled him more 
 greatly on this subject ; but the presence of Con- 
 rade, who clung to his friend, and employed his 
 mind and fancy by a continual reference to Ber 
 tha Staremberg, served to keep them down and 
 to restrain them. They did not separate as did 
 the rest. 
 
 " I will attend you," said Conrade ; "you must 
 instantly seek Bertha, or you may be too late. 
 Your baron with the long name may be in a hur 
 ry, and Staremberg has shown you that he does 
 not hold you of sufficient importance, though he 
 loved your father so very much, to wait any very 
 long time for his son. Your retainers, I see, are 
 ready ; and Oberfeldt, like a hospitable man, has 
 provided handsomely for his friends. These 
 dresses are very rich. Follow my example." 
 
 In an instant Conrade Weickhoif arrayed him 
 self in a splendid suit, that lay on the table before 
 him, which was covered with the richest dresses of 
 every pattern and size. Without pause for reflec 
 tion, Rodolph did the same, and they were soon 
 equipped. In the court below fine horses were 
 
CONRADE WEICKHOFF. 
 
 caparisoned ; and Weickhoff did not scruple to 
 single out a noble barb for himself, while designa 
 ting another for his friend. They were soon 
 mounted, and the morning sun found them scouring 
 over the space which separated the two castles of 
 Oberfeldt and Staremberg. 
 
 XV. 
 
 You should have seen Rodolph Steinmyer and 
 his friend Conrade Weickhoff, on their fine black 
 chargers, come prancing into the courtyard of 
 Staremberg. You should have seen the conster 
 nation of all the spectators. The baron with the 
 long name stood aghast ; but a moment before he 
 had been certain of his prey, of which he now felt 
 exceedingly doubtful. Staremberg looked wild, 
 but not dissatisfied; while his lady, dazzled by the 
 guady trappings of the horses and their riders, 
 could only lift up her skinny hands, and exclaim : 
 
 " My eyes ! my eyes !" 
 
 To make a long story short, the presence of 
 Rodolph became very agreeable to the father and 
 mother, no less than to the daughter. They were 
 delighted with him, and his horses, and his friends, 
 and his retainers, and every thing that was his. 
 
36 CONRADE WEICKHOFF. 
 
 There were now no objections to his suit. The ba 
 ron always had loved Rodolph as he had loved his 
 father. It was only a strange obliquity of under 
 standing on the youth's part that kept him from 
 making the discovery. The old lady had all 
 along desired that Rodolph should be the choice 
 of her daughter ; it was only a proper feeling of 
 maternal pride that had prompted her to say the 
 contrary. It was strange how naturally and well 
 all old difficulties were smoothed and explained 
 away ; and Rodolph, good youth ! only wonder 
 ed at his own dullness, at not having seen things 
 in their proper light before. 
 
 " My son," exclaimed the dear old baroness, in 
 a fit of enthusiastic fondness, " the desire of my 
 heart is now realized ; I can go down to the 
 grave in peace, since you are to be the husband of 
 my daughter." 
 
 Conrade Weickhoff chuckled irreverently and 
 loud. The baron with the long name expostu 
 lated ; but Staremberg told him bluntly that he 
 had never loved his father as he had loved the 
 father of Rodolph ; a speech which the bachelor 
 knight took in high dudgeon, but without receiv 
 ing any redress for it. That night a wild, prac 
 tical joke which Conrade Weickhoff played oft 
 upon him, sent him away half dead with affright, 
 
CONRADE WEICKHOFF. 37 
 
 half naked, and at midnight. The wooing went 
 on smoothly after this ; no difficulties stood in the 
 way, all parties were satisfied, and the marriage 
 followed as soon as circumstances would permit, 
 In the arms of the lovely Bertha, Rodolph almost 
 forgot the dreadful ceremonial which he had wit 
 nessed, and of which he had partaken, at the castle 
 of Oberfeldt. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 But he was not allowed to forget so readily. 
 His friend Conrade Weickhoff, like a true friend, 
 kept him in memory of his honorable engage 
 ments. During the honeymoon, however, Con 
 rade most strangely kept aloof from the dwelling 
 of the lovers ; and, for that brief period, it may 
 safely be affirmed that never was dwelling more 
 favored by the sunshine of happiness. The two, 
 thus united, seemed only to live for one another ; 
 and such was the warmth and strength of their 
 mutual attachment, that the most casual or close 
 observer must have seen that their future joy, if it 
 depended only upon themselves, must be un 
 alloyed and permanent. Alas! it did not de 
 pend entirely upon themselves. The alloy was 
 
 VOL. II. 4 
 
38 CONRADE WEICKHOFF, 
 
 at hand, and the friend of Rodolph, strange to 
 say, was the first to administer it. A month 
 had passed, or more, when Conrade suddenly 
 made his appearance. Will it be believed, that 
 Rodolph was pained to see him ? So it was. The 
 presence of his friend brought with it the recollec 
 tion of the dreadful engagement which he had 
 made, and to which he had seduced him. He 
 sickened at his sight, and turned away. But his 
 aversion was not seen by Conrade ; at least, the 
 latter did not seem to see it. He resolutely ap 
 proached, and took the hand of Rodolph in his 
 own, and addressed him in the soothing and sweet 
 language of friendship. But even the tones of his 
 voice, so soft and pleasant to his ear, and the 
 words of good faith which Conrade uttered, were 
 all neutralized by a strange, taunting laugh, a 
 suppressed chuckle, which his friend of late had 
 most unaccountably adopted. 
 
 " D n that strange laugh which you have," 
 said Rodolph, abruptly ; "I do not like it ; it 
 goes like a cold wind into my bones. Where the 
 d 1 did you pick it up f" 
 
 " You do not like it, then ?" said the other, and 
 he laughed again, more unpleasantly than ever. 
 
 " Like it, Conrade ! How should I ? It is the 
 strangest, most annoying chuckle I ever heard in 
 
CONRADE WEICKHOFF. 39 
 
 my life. Drop it, for my sake, I pray you, and 
 take up some better habit." 
 
 Conrade was obliging enough. 
 
 " I will try to rid myself of it," said he, " since 
 it annoys you, though the effort will be a hard 
 one. It is so natural to me." 
 
 "Natural to yon!" exclaimed Rodolph; "why, 
 I do not remember to have ever heard it before 
 you went to sea ?" 
 
 " Perhaps not ; it is a foreign acquisition, no 
 doubt, and not the less natural for being so. The 
 journey through life is chiefly taken that we may 
 pick up our nature as we go along. Our nature 
 is not born with us, as foolish people imagine. 
 We choose it from a variety, as we choose our 
 dresses ; and our happiness depends very much 
 upon the sort of stuff and color we make choice 
 of. Perhaps, if you observe closely, you will see 
 that the most fickle people are those who have a 
 variety the most fortunate those who have but 
 one. It is my error to have chosen some that do 
 not sit graciously ; that laugh, for example, which 
 you do not like. My smile pleases you better, 
 I doubt not ?" 
 
 And Conrade, as he spoke, turned his glance 
 upon the face of Rodolph, with an expression 
 which was even more annoying to the youth than 
 
40 CONRADE WEICKHOFF. 
 
 the chuckle of which he had complained. He 
 was about to say so to his companion, but the 
 fear of being thought querulous, and his own in 
 creasing consciousness of a state of nervous exci 
 tability, determined him to say nothing. 
 
 " I am feverish, I think, this evening, Con 
 rade," he said to his friend ; " do you not think 
 so?" 
 
 He extended his hand as he spoke ; but when 
 the fingers of Conrade pressed the wrist, it seemed 
 to him that he was chilled as by an ague. He 
 withdrew his arm instantly, and looked with as 
 tonishment upon his comrade, whose smile, like 
 that of a basilisk, was fixed upon him. 
 
 " You are disordered," said Conrade, a moment 
 after, with a show of concern in his countenance. 
 " You should take medicine. I will ride over to 
 Oberfeldt's castle, and get you something. He 
 had a fine laboratory, and made his own chemi 
 cals." 
 
 " God forbid !" exclaimed Rodolph ; " Noth 
 ing from that d nable place, in heaven's name." 
 
 " We will not speak of the absent," responded 
 the other gravely. " But let us to the castle ; 
 some wine will cheer us both, and, possibly, put 
 you in better health and spirits," 
 
CONRADE WEICKHOFF. 41 
 
 XVII. 
 
 "Rodolph, dear Rodolph!" said Bertha one 
 day to her husband, standing at the castle en 
 trance, and looking forth upon the retreating 
 figure of Conrade Weickhoff, who had just left 
 them ; " there is something about the baron Weick 
 hoff that is very annoying to me. I do not like 
 him, Rodolph." 
 
 " He is my friend, Bertha," responded Rodolph, 
 with a gravity that seemed to rebuke her no less 
 than his language. 
 
 "I know it, dear Rodolph, and I try to like 
 him, because he is your friend ; but forgive me, 
 dear Rodolph, when I tell you that all my efforts 
 are in vain. I cannot like him ; I do not feel at 
 ease in his presence." 
 
 The youth looked curiously upon the blooming 
 and blushing woman of his heart, and, strange to 
 say, he loved her the more because she could not 
 tolerate his friend. He dared not speak out his 
 feelings and thoughts, however, for there was be 
 tween the two a manifest contradiction which he 
 had sought, but vainly, to reconcile. In his own 
 estimation, Conrade had ever been his friend. In 
 
 4* 
 
42 CONRADE WEICKHOFP. 
 
 boyhood they were inseparable, and, certainly, 
 the very possession of his wife and present hap 
 piness was owing entirely to Conrade. Should 
 he oppose to these substantial services the capri- 
 ciousness of taste which found fault with a look, a 
 glance, or a ridiculous chuckle? Nothing could 
 be more idle or unjust in the eye of reason and 
 good sense ; yet, in his heart, that glance and 
 chuckle were more than enough to counterbalance 
 all the substantial services which his friend had 
 rendered him. 
 
 " And what is there, dear Bertha, in Conrade 
 Weickhoff that displeases you ?" 
 
 " He is so cold," said she, innocently. 
 
 " Indeed !" exclaimed the other, not altogether 
 so well pleased with his wife, and rather more 
 pleased with his friend. "Indeed cold in 
 what manner, Bertha f" 
 
 " He seems to have lost all human sensibilities," 
 was her reply. " When he speaks, it is only to 
 sneer at his neighbors. Does he hear of any vir 
 tues which they possess, he is sure to know and to 
 speak of their defects and foibles. He laughs, 
 too, at sacred things at age and character 
 and does not seem to relish the respect which 
 others show to them. Then that strange, horrid 
 laugh, which he has ; and sometimes, when you 
 
CONRADE WEICKHOFF. 43 
 
 turn suddenly, you catch his eye fixed upon you 
 with a staring sx>rt of contempt, which puts me, 
 for all the world, in mind of the Mephistopheles 
 whom you remember to have seen upon the tapes 
 try in the old hall at Staremberg, where he tempts 
 our ancestor, the Teuton, on the brow of the Harz, 
 He sometimes frightens me to look at him, and 
 my blood is chilled when he speaks to me, or 
 laughs. I cannot like him, I'm afraid." 
 
 " Nor I," thought Rodolph, but he did not say 
 it. The words of Bertha saddened him more than 
 ever, though he loved her the more when he found 
 how large was the degree of sympathy between 
 them. A common aversion is not unfrequently 
 the occasion of a common love. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 "Your wife does not like me, Rodolph," said 
 Conrade to the former, one day, some time after 
 this interview. "I am too blunt; I speak out 
 my mind too freely, and so offend her. She has 
 been brought up by that old beldam, your mother- 
 in-law of Staremberg forgive me, Rodolph, if 
 I cannot speak very affectionately of her and 
 has imbibed many of those antiquated, stiff notions, 
 
44 CONRADE WEICKHOFF. 
 
 which would fetter all freedom of speech and in 
 tercourse. I am a plain man, and can't bend my 
 self to conciliate people of his temper. You must 
 take me as you find me, or not at all. I know I 
 have my faults ; I am neither very amiable nor 
 very handsome. I have seen the world, and, 
 thanks to Oberfeldt, I am quite too independent 
 to find it necessary to play the hypocrite, and give 
 men credit for qualities which they have not. 
 Your wife loves not ascetics, and I am too much 
 of one to please her. Better, therefore, that I 
 should cease to trouble you with my visits. Now 
 and then I may look in upon you, and I need not 
 say how ready I am, with the old feeling, to serve 
 you whenever you need me. In such case, all that 
 you need do, is to visit me. I shall always re 
 joice to see one so dear to me." 
 
 Rodolph tried to explain for, and to excuse his 
 wife ; an error of judgment, which a wise husband 
 will never commit. 
 
 " You mistake Bertha entirely, my dear Con- 
 rade ; you do her injustice. Her reserve is na 
 tural to her, and she meets every body as she 
 meets you." 
 
 " No, no, Rodolph, I know better. The dif 
 ference is marked between her reception of me and 
 others." 
 
 'By heaven, Conrade, but it shall not be so. 
 
CONRADE WEICKHOFF. 45 
 
 You are my friend, and my wife shall treat you as 
 such." 
 
 Strangely contradictory were the thoughts and 
 feelings of Rodolph on this occasion. Conscious 
 himself of a changed temper toward his friend, he 
 sought to hide the alteration from scrutiny by a 
 show of proper indignation toward his innocent 
 wife ; and he fumed and foamed for ten minutes 
 in violent speech accordingly. 
 
 "Nay, be not angry, Rodolph," said his com 
 panion, in a style of soothing which was exceed 
 ingly annoying. 
 
 " I will be angry, Conrade. I have reason to 
 be angry. My wife do injustice to my friend! I 
 will be angry !" 
 
 A sarcastic smile played over the lips of Con 
 rade at this insincere ebullition. Well he knew 
 that Rodolph's aversion was not less strong than 
 that of Bertha's ; but he took especial care to 
 conceal his conviction on this subject. Rodolph, 
 in the mean while, hurried to Bertha's chamber, 
 leaving Conrade in the hall. He had worked 
 himself into a petty sort of fury, by repeating 
 Conrade's language to himself as he went through 
 the passages, and he was in no small tempest when 
 he came into her presence. The fury of his first 
 assault astounded her, and she could not reply, 
 
46 CONRADE WEICKHOFF. 
 
 till, all on a sudden, she beheld the glaring eyes 
 of Conrade peeping through the opened door of 
 the apartment. A new emotion a sudden 
 strength, which seemed supernatural possessed 
 her on the instant. She darted from her seat, 
 threw herself before the little family altar that 
 stood by the bedside, and prayed aloud to heaven. 
 The practical rebuke was felt by her husband. 
 He sank down before the altar beside her, and 
 their mutual hands were clasped in prayer. When 
 she looked round to the door of the apartment, 
 the face of Conrade Weickhoff was no longer to 
 be seen. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 A month had passed before Conrade again 
 visited Rodolph. In ttiat period a change had 
 taken place in the dwelling of the latter. Bertha 
 and her young husband were happier than ever. 
 She was " as women wish to be, who love their 
 lords." Her heart was light now, like that of a 
 bird in spring. He, too, though troubled some 
 times with serious thoughts, was yet conscious 
 of an intenser satisfaction than his heart had 
 ever known before. Conrade beheld this at 
 
CONRADE WEICKHOFF. 4? 
 
 a glance. His manner was more guarded than 
 usual. His temper seemed to be subdued. He 
 was even conciliatory, though reserved ; and, in 
 the flush of her heart's tide of joyful emotions, 
 Bertha half forgot her old hostility. She even 
 smiled freely upon, and talked with the ancient 
 friend of her husband ; the whole world, at that 
 moment, seeming to her young and delighted 
 spirits, full of associations which were all good 
 and beautiful. 
 
 Conrade congratulated Rodolph upon the 
 grateful prospect before him, and in a manner 
 which was far less disagreeable than usual. He 
 spent the day pleasantly enough with his friend ; 
 but left the castle after sunset, alleging a pressing 
 necessity for his presence elsewhere. On leaving, 
 however, he amply made amends to himself for 
 his own forbearance. His last words, at parting, 
 left a sting that rankled dreadfully in the bosom 
 of the youth. The words were simple enough, 
 and seemed only a passing inquiry. 
 
 " What month is this, Rodolph ?" said he, as 
 it were unconsciously, while mounting his sable 
 steed. 
 
 " July," was the stammered reply. 
 
 " July !" Conrade seemed to muse a while ; 
 then speaking as follows, he rode away : 
 
48 CONRADE WEICKHOFF. 
 
 "I shall not see you for some time, Rodolph ; 
 not, I think, before November. Then I must see 
 yon, you know." 
 
 Big drops stood upon the brow of Rodolph ; 
 he rushed to the gloomiest chamber of his castle, 
 and he felt not that night the caresses of his wife. 
 Well did he understand the significant, yet simple 
 language of his friend. The fifth of November 
 was the first anniversary after the self-murder of 
 Oberfeldt. 
 
 XX. 
 
 It came too rapidly that dreadful month. 
 We need not try, we should fail utterly, to describe 
 the agony of Rodolph, at its approach. It was a 
 madness that subdued sort of madness in which, 
 while the faculties of mind all struggle in confu 
 sion, there is still a sufficient consciousness of its 
 own impotence and utter despair, to restrain it 
 from any vain and idle ebullition. In a few days 
 the flesh seemed to have fallen from his bones ; 
 his eyes were lustreless, yet full of a feverish glare, 
 Jike those of Weickhoff, and seemed shooting out 
 from their sockets. His very limbs seemed pal 
 sied, and refused their offices. He was incapable 
 
CONRADE WEICKHOFF. 49 
 
 of exertion, All things contributed to this agony 
 of soul under which he labored. The pregnancy 
 of Bertha had advanced greatly. A few days, 
 and he might be a father; and she, as this thought 
 came to her mind, she clung to her husband with 
 all the strength of a new-born passion, and, bury 
 ing her head in his bosom, dwelt fondly upon the 
 blessing which was at hand. How more than 
 sweet was life at that moment ! How dreadful 
 the idea of death, as an appointed prospect in the 
 vista of time ! How much more dreadful the 
 strong probability of that death, so near, and so 
 terrible, which the coming anniversary announced ! 
 Wonder not that he thrust the one most beloved 
 of all from his arms, when these awful images 
 assailed him. Wonder not that he rushed away 
 from her embrace to the deepest cell of his castle, 
 and threw himself in utter abandonment of soul 
 upon the cold and clammy pavement. 
 
 The night came a night of exceeding beauty. 
 Rodolph moved through his dwelling like a blind 
 man. He tottered in his mental incertitude, not 
 less than in his body's debility. He was about to 
 visit his wife in her chamber, when he was con 
 scious that some one stood suddenly beside him. 
 He looked round, and it was Conrade Weickhoff. 
 
 " The hour is late, Rodolph," said Conrade, 
 
 VOL. II. 5 
 
50 CONRADE WEICKHO^F. 
 
 " we hive little time to spare. Your horse is 
 saddled in the court. We must keep our en 
 gagements." 
 
 "God of heaven ! Conrade," exclaimed the 
 youth, " how can you speak of this accursed busi 
 ness so coolly ?" 
 
 " Why not ? I had long since prepared my 
 mind for it," said the other, " and so, I presume, 
 had you." 
 
 "No no ! The thought is dreadful!" 
 
 " Nor will it be less so by poring over it. But 
 why should this thought be so dreadful to you 
 now? You are only in the same situation in which 
 I found you a year ago, even should it fall to your 
 lot to perish. Then, only for my hand, you would 
 have done that, the image of which now so dread 
 fully affrights you. I see not the substantial 
 difference." 
 
 But there was a substantial difference, and Ro- 
 dolph saw and felt it. How desolate was he then 
 how hopeless how desperate in love and 
 fortune with how little to live for! Now 
 what had he not, in possession, calculated to make 
 him in love with life what sweet ties what 
 ministering affections what hopes what joys, 
 what desires and delights ! He reproached his 
 friend bitterly, as he thought upon these things. 
 
CONRADE WEICKHOFF. -51 
 
 Would that I had never seen you, Conrac'e," 
 he exclaimed, bitterly. 
 
 " I should have been spared this language, 
 then," said the other, with a tone of reproach, 
 which had its effect upon the sensitive mind of the 
 hearer. Rodolph was too much of a dependant 
 upon his friend to quarrel with him ; and begging 
 his forgiveness, he inquired into some trifling par 
 ticulars connected with the coming proceedings at 
 the castle of Oberfeldt. 
 
 " The chances are no more against you, Ro 
 dolph, than against myself and all the rest. It all 
 depends on fortune. Your good luck has always 
 been conspicuous ; it will not fail you now." 
 
 " True, true," said the other, musingly, and 
 with renewed hope ; but a moment after, his brow 
 became clouded again. 
 
 " But it must come some day or other, Conrade 
 next year or the next." 
 
 " Sufficient for the day is the evil thereof. 
 Death itself must come some day or other, and 
 with this greater disadvantage, that you have no 
 specified time for preparation. The Oberfeldt 
 contract takes nobody by surprise. But the lot 
 may never fall to you, Rodolph." 
 
 " How ? it must some day or other." 
 
 " No ! our college is never less. For every 
 
52 CONRADE WEICKHOFF. 
 
 man taken from us by lot, we choose another 
 member to fill his place, from applicants who are 
 always sufficiently numerous. The new comer 
 shares the chances with you precisely as did the 
 old ; and as luck's all, it may be that it shall 
 never fall to you to perish by your own hand ; 
 and you may die, in a ripe old age, after the 
 fashion of the most quiet abbot, in all the odor of 
 sanctity, and with all the comfortings of a full 
 household around you." 
 
 The gamester's hope consoled and strengthened 
 Rodolph. 
 
 " I will be ready in a moment," said he. 
 
 " Where are you going ?" 
 
 " But for a moment I would see Bertha." 
 
 11 Better not ; yon will only mingle useless 
 tears." 
 
 "I must go!" said Rodolph, firmly; " I must 
 tell her that I am about to ride forth for an hour 
 or two, or she will be alarmed." 
 
 Conrade chuckled, but did not seek farther to 
 restrain his friend. The parting between Rodolph 
 and his wife he suffering all the agony of his 
 situation, yet under the necessity of hiding it from 
 her ; and she full of all the tenderness of a wife, 
 so soon to become a mother was a trying one 
 to him, and a sweetly tearful one to her. 
 
CONRADE WEICKHOFF. 53 
 
 " God bless you, dear Rodolph, and return 
 you soon." 
 
 He hurried away, and the two friends were 
 soon mounted upon their fierce and coal-black 
 steeds. They employed neither whip nor spur, 
 yet they flew over the space between the two 
 castles, before Rodolph conceived himself to be 
 fairly on the road. 
 
 XXL 
 
 They arrived late, but still in season. It was 
 yet half an hour to twelve, and Rodolph had 
 sufficient time to survey the assembly. What a 
 motley crew ! A full year had passed since he 
 had seen them, and yet, on most of them, what a 
 change had that time brought about ! Dissipa 
 tion had done its work. Unaccustomed resources 
 had brought unaccustomed indulgence. The 
 wallow of the beast had swallowed up the spirit 
 of the man ; and degradation had succeeded to 
 licentiousness, with the unerring rapidity of an 
 upward flying spark. Rodolph, who, in the arms 
 of a faithful and pure wife, had kept, to a certain 
 extent at least, the original whiteness of his soul, 
 turned from them in disgust. Their foul and 
 
54 CONRADE WEICKHOFF. 
 
 brutal language frightened as well as disgusted 
 him, Conrade, on the contrary, whose mental 
 and moral man was infinitely more flexible, ca 
 roused and clamored with them most freely after 
 their own fashion. He did not seem to dislike, but 
 rather appeared desirous of promoting their ex 
 cesses. The wine cup was freely plied, and yet 
 Rodolph could see that, while filling for others, 
 his friend himself drank nothing. Yet his laugh 
 that strange laugh was among the loudest, 
 and his words had sway over the boisterous group 
 of turbulents that gathered in a mass around him. 
 
 Suddenly, the heavily swinging bell, in the 
 tower overhead, thundered out the hour. The 
 heart of Rodolph died away within him. His 
 bones were chilled his blood frozen his knees 
 tottered feebly beneath the burden of his own 
 weight. The eyes of Conrade were upon him 
 his words were in his ears 
 
 "Rodolph?" 
 
 Cold sweat stood in massive drops upon the 
 youth's forehead, and his lips parted feebly in a 
 vain effort at a hurried prayer. The wild chuckle 
 of his friend at this moment drove away the 
 pleading minister at heaven's gates ; and desper 
 ately seizing his arm, Conrade led the way for the 
 
CONRADE WEICKHOFF. 55 
 
 rest into the adjoining hall of state and dreadful 
 ceremonial. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 Demoniac, indeed, had been the taste which fit 
 ted up that apartment. Grotesque images stood 
 glaring around upon them from the swaying and 
 swinging tapestry. Sable shafts and columns, 
 broken and cragged, seemed to glide about the 
 walls. Gloomy and dark draperies hung over 
 the doors and windows, fringed with flame-like 
 edges ; and sprinkled drops of blood, .like a rain 
 shower, as they entered the hall of doom, fell upon 
 their dresses. Rodolph clung to the arm of his 
 friend, even as an infant in a sudden terror clings 
 to that of a mother or a nurse. He was almost 
 lifeless in his accumulating fears and fancies. But 
 that laugh of Conrade, annoying as it was at every 
 other period, had now the effect of reassuring him. 
 It had in it a sort of scorn of all these objects of 
 dread so Rodolph thought which re-nerved 
 the apprehensive youth ; and boldly they walked 
 forward together. The board of death was spread 
 the board upon which Oberfeldt had slain him 
 self. The outlines of his bloody form were printed 
 
56 CONRADE WEICKHOFF. 
 
 upon its covering; and there, in an hour more, 
 his successor was doomed to lie. And who was 
 that successor? That was the question which 
 Rodolph propounded momentarily to himself: 
 "Who? who?" 
 
 There was no long time for deliberation. Con- 
 rade led the way. There was a strange cry of 
 assembled voices from a neighboring apartment, 
 seemingly from cells beneath the stone floor upon 
 which they stood. It was like laughter, and yet 
 Rodolph distinguished now and then a shriek in 
 the dreadful chorus which followed it. Faint notes 
 of music the sudden clang of a trumpet and 
 then the rapid rushing and the crash of closing 
 doors, as if a sudden tempest raged without 
 these were the sounds and images which accom 
 panied the act, in which the fraternity now engag 
 ed, of drawing for the fatal lot. 
 
 Blindly, madly, stupidly, and reeling like a 
 drunken man, Rodolph, under the guidance of his 
 friend's arm, approached the table, and the mas 
 sive iron vase, from which the billet was to be taken. 
 Desperately was his arm thrust forward into its 
 fatal jaws. His fingers felt about its bottom, and 
 he drew forth the card. He knew not what he 
 had drawn ; he dared not look upon it. He be 
 lieved his doom to be written. 
 
 A signal announced the ceremony to be over 
 
CONRADE WEICKHOFF. 57 
 
 the preparatory ceremony. A bright light played 
 around the vase, and the several members of the 
 college advanced with the lots which they had 
 drawn. 
 
 " Give yourselves no trouble, my friends," ex 
 claimed one, whose voice Rodolph instantly recog 
 nised to be that of Conrade. " You need not 
 examine your billets, since mine tells me what 
 yours must be. I have the good fortune to be 
 chosen successor to our great founder. It is for 
 me to set you an example in following that of 
 Oberfeldt. The billet of death has fallen to my 
 lot." And, as he spoke, he displayed the fearful and 
 blood-written scroll loftily in the sight of the rest. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 Rodolph was speechless with varying emotions. 
 His own safety ; the loss of his friend ; the com 
 posure with which Conrade announced his doom, 
 and prepared himself for it ; all oppressed him 
 with the strangest sensations. Conrade again 
 spoke : 
 
 " I go to prepare. In the adjoining chamber, 
 agreeable to the directions of Oberfeldt, lies the 
 knife and the garment which are to prepare me for 
 
58 
 
 CONRADE WEICKHOFF. 
 
 his doom. There also are the candidates who 
 seek to fill my place. From one of these it is for 
 me to choose. Fear not, my friends, that I shall 
 choose one unworthy to associate with you. My 
 pride is, that my successor shall be worthy of me." 
 
 With these words he left the hall. He returned 
 in a few moments, bringing with him another, of 
 whose face, though Rodolph knew him not, he did 
 not seem altogether ignorant. Conrade was rob 
 ed for death ; and the double-edged knife, with 
 which Oberfeldt had slain himself, smeared still 
 with the purple blood of the preceding victim, 
 was uplifted in his hand. 
 
 " This is my successor," exclaimed Conrade. 
 " He is named Hans Busacher ; you will swear 
 him upon my body, as you have each of you 
 sworn upon that of Oberfeldt." 
 
 With these words he prepared to mount the 
 throne of death, when his eyes met those of Ro 
 dolph, which were full of irrepressible tears. 
 He whispered in the youth's ears : 
 
 " Rodolph, the hour which takes me from life, 
 gives a double life to you. Busacher tells me 
 that you are a father. Hurrying by your castle, 
 the intelligence reached him from a domestic. A 
 fine son links you now more than ever to Bertha 
 and to life." 
 
CONRADE WEIGKHOFF. 59 
 
 Without waiting for reply, the intrepid Conrade 
 leaped upon the table. He gave but a single look 
 and parting nod to the assembly ; then, drawing 
 the keen edge of the knife with a heavy hand over 
 his throat, his eyes were fixed, a second after, in 
 the dim haze and utter insensibility of death. 
 
 Silence was among the rest, but a heavy groan 
 burst from Rodolph, drowned, however, in a burst 
 of shrieks and yells, from the cells below, which 
 were appalling. But there was little time allowed 
 for speculation upon these matters. The unini- 
 tiate now advanced to the table, and each member 
 crowded round to repeat the terms of the oath to 
 Hans Busacher which he was required to take. 
 He did not shrink, though he had gazed upon the 
 awful event which had just taken place. With 
 one hand upon the body of Conrade, the fingers 
 of the other grasped the pen, and signed the in 
 strument; and Rodolph saw, ever as Busacher 
 wrote, that the name of Conrade faded from the 
 body of the instrument above, while that of Bu 
 sacher, letter by letter, rose visibly in its place. 
 The ceremony over, he rushed from the horrible 
 connexion, and was soon blessed with the sight of 
 that dear pledge of love, of which WeickhofT, in 
 the moment of death, had informed him. 
 
GO CONRADE WEICKHOFF. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 The escape from his present danger was a new 
 life to Rodolph. In just proportion to his former 
 extreme apprehensions, was his feeling of security 
 now. He did not, for the present, trouble himself 
 with thoughts of the future. There was time 
 enough, month after month, in the long, sweet year 
 before him. His thoughts were all due to his wife 
 and child; to the beautiful boy, in whose infant 
 lineaments Bertha had already clearly traced out 
 all the features of the father's face. The days, the 
 weeks, flew rapidly by in the freshness of so new 
 and pure a pleasure. Joy vainly spread forth his 
 witcheries, to delay the feet of time. Months had 
 now elapsed, and a cloud began to gather upon 
 the brow of Rodolph, a cloud which even the 
 caresses of his wife and infant failed at all times 
 to disperse. 
 
 One day Bertha said to her husband her child 
 being in her arms, and she being within those of 
 Rodolph 
 
 " Dearest, I am sad to see you so. Wherefore 
 16 it ? Why are you gloomy f And you groan, 
 Rodolph, oh, so deeply in your sleep, as if you 
 
CONRADE WEICKHOFF. 61 
 
 had some secret and dreadful sorrow. Tell it me, 
 Rodolph. Share it with me, dear husband. If 
 I cannot soothe, I can better assist you to endure 
 it." 
 
 How freely, how joyfully would he have reveal 
 ed to her, if he had dared, the awful secret that 
 was harrowing up his soul. Better if he had done 
 so ; but he was not sufficiently assured of that 
 mighty strength which is in the bosom of a woman 
 who loves devotedly, and he doubted her ability 
 to bear the horrible recital of what he knew and 
 dreaded. She implored him in vain ; he evaded 
 and denied, until she grew unhappy, as she saw 
 that he did evade. 
 
 At another time she said : 
 
 " Dear Rodolph, you do not pray with me now, 
 as you were wont to do. When we were first 
 wedded, it was so sweet to kneel with you, and 
 pray together, each night before we slept, and 
 confess to each other our mutual errors and un- 
 kindnesses. Now, dear Rodolph, I pray alone. 
 Wherefore is it, Rodolph ? Ah, husband, shall we 
 not again pray together ? Shall we not; kneel to 
 night, and renew our former custom ?" 
 
 He looked at her with the desperate fondness of 
 a dying man so fondly, so earnestly, so despair 
 ingly. He folded his arms around her ; he press- 
 
 VOL. n. 6 
 
62 CONRADE WEICRHOFF. 
 
 ed his lips long and lovingly to hers ; and he 
 promised her that their prayers should be once 
 more united. 
 
 That evening, when they had sought their 
 chamber, she proceeded to exact the fulfilment of 
 his pledge. She led him to the altar, and they 
 kneeled together, and tire pure hearted woman 
 began to pray aloud. Rodolph was silent, or 
 strove vainly to utter a corresponding prayer. On 
 a sudden, he started up with a wild shriek ; he 
 thrust his eyes in his palms, and fled from the 
 apartment ; and that night he came not again to 
 the expecting arms of his wife. He had seen the 
 face of Conrade Weickhoff -peering from behind 
 the altar upon him ; that horrible grin upon his 
 lips, and a glare from his eyes that seemed sa- 
 tanic. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 While it was yet early, he had a visit the next 
 morning from Hans Busacher, who had recently 
 become a neighbor, and was in possession of the 
 domains formerly belonging to Conrade Weick 
 hoff. Rodolph trembled and shuddered to behold 
 him, not only as his neighborhood reminded him 
 
CONRADE WEICKHOFF. 63 
 
 of his friend, but because there was something in 
 the face of Busacher very much like that of Con- 
 rade. There was nothing offensive, however, 
 either in the person or the manners of the new vi- 
 siter. He was courteous and affable, seemed to 
 have always moved in the best society, and, in 
 every respect, might have been considered a very 
 model of gentility. There was, perhaps, some 
 thing of loftiness in his air, which some may have 
 regarded as stiffness, ^and he was essentially di 
 vested of all those softer feelings which beguile 
 humanity with dreams. He was cold in the ex 
 treme, if not a phlegmatic. Rodolph and himself 
 conversed for a good while on indifferent topics, 
 and the youth, who, wanting in decision of cha 
 racter, himself needed some stronger spirit upon 
 whom to lean, began to be pleased with his visiter, 
 and was really grateful to him for having called. 
 When Busacher was about to go, Rodolph warm 
 ly made his acknowledgments, and grasping the 
 hand of the former with a strong gripe, he begged 
 that he might again soon see him at the castle. 
 
 " I know not," said the other, with composure, 
 " that I shall soon have that pleasure. This is 
 Juty. I go in a few days upon a journey to the 
 borders, where I have to make some arrangements 
 
64 CONRADE "WEICKHOFF. 
 
 in respect to property. I shall return by Novem 
 ber, when I shall see you again, of course." 
 
 The very language of Conrade a year before. 
 The visiter was gone ; and, during the rest of that 
 day, unseen by wife or domestics, Rodolph totter 
 ed, like a paralytic, through a dark gallery of his 
 dwelling. 
 
 XXVI. . 
 
 Let us skip over the intervening period. No 
 thing need be said in all this time of the increas 
 ing mental agony of Rodolph. It will be suffi 
 cient to know that his despair and suffering were 
 even greater than during the year before. Life 
 had grown dearer to him ; he was bound to it by 
 new ties ; and Bertha and his child grew lovelier 
 and more necessary to his heart, with every in 
 crease of the doubt and the dread which were ga 
 thering and groping there. 
 
 The night came, and, to his surprise, Hans Bu- 
 sacher was again his visiter. 
 
 "lam but now returned from the borders," 
 were his first words ; " and knowing that your 
 course lay with mine to-night, I concluded to stop 
 in passing, and bear you company." 
 
COXRADE WEICKHOFF. 65 
 
 " What an alteration in his voice !" said Ro- 
 dolph to himself. " I have certainly heard that 
 voice frequently before." 
 
 Thus he mused as he looked upon his visiter, 
 and he shuddered with the strangest emotions. He 
 parted from Bertha, suppressing his grief as well 
 as he could, but full of the most painful presenti 
 ments. 
 
 " Come back soon, dear Rodolph," she cried 
 to him entreatingly, and he promised her, but with 
 a choking accent. 
 
 The companions soon reached Oberfeldt castle, 
 and, one by one, the several members of the col 
 lege were soon assembled together. Let us not 
 dwell upon the preparatory display on this occa 
 sion. We already know the rites and orgies 
 which were initial. We have already seen the 
 decorations of the dismal chamber, and the dread 
 ful hall. They were now the same. Rodolph 
 well remembered each fearful characteristic. The 
 same scene was renewed in all its parts ; and, amid 
 crowding forms, and stimulated even into madness 
 by similar objects, sights, and sounds, as had at 
 tended the proceedings of the previous anniversa 
 ry, he, with the rest, advanced to the iron vase. 
 They drew their billets in turn, and when Rodolph 
 
66 CONRADE WEICKHOFF. 
 
 lifted his into the light, the doom of self-murder 
 was decreed to him in characters of blood. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 His head swam his heart sickened he tot 
 tered from the fearful board, and stammering out 
 his intention to the rest, passed into the adjoining 
 apartment, where he was to choose his successor, 
 and prepare for the execution of his doom. 
 
 " Poor fellow !" said one, " he does not seem 
 to like it." 
 
 " No," said another, " but better him than us. 
 It will always be a year too soon when the time 
 comes, and so no doubt he thinks it." 
 
 " Wonder how he likes leaving his wife," said 
 a third ; " they say he is very fond of her." 
 
 " Psha ! is she fond of him f is the question. 
 She will have no loss ; she's quite as lovely as 
 ever, and I will take some pains myself to console 
 her," said a fourth, who was one of the most 
 self-complacent of the group. It is in this brutal 
 fashion that vice presumes to speak of the supe 
 rior virtue which it hates and fears. Little did 
 the pure minded Bertha at that moment imagine 
 that such as these were the associates of her hus- 
 
CONRADE WEICKHOFF. 67 
 
 band. Thus had the conversation proceeded for 
 some time in the hall, when some one remarked 
 upon the long absence of the victim : 
 
 " He stays long !" 
 
 " Yes ; his choice is difficult. It is to be hoped 
 he brings us a proper man, a good fellow, not too 
 proud to know his friends and neighbors." 
 
 " If he does," said a third, " we should rejoice 
 in the exchange, for he will then give us a more 
 sociable and better fellow than himself." 
 
 The delay of Rodolph to return, at length pro 
 voked anxiety. He was sought for, and was no 
 where to be found. The successor was unchosen 
 the 'fatal garment unassumed the knife of 
 death unappropriated. The unhappy youth dared 
 not fulfil his pledges. Life was too sweet 
 death too terrible and scarcely enjoying the 
 one, or only destined to enjoy it in horrors, he had 
 yet fled from the utterly bereaving embraces of 
 the other. He had availed himself of the few 
 moments which were allotted to the victim for 
 solitary preparation, to hurry through a neighbor 
 ing passage, and regain the court-yard. There, 
 mounting his steed, he had fled with all despera 
 tion, and a full half hour had elapsed after his 
 departure before his flight was discovered. 
 
68 
 
 CONRADE WEICKHOFF. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 There was a general hubbub among the col- 
 legiates when the discovery was made. All was 
 confusion and uproar. 
 
 *' The coward !" several of them exclaimed, 
 " thus to fly from death." 
 
 "Dishonorable!" cried others, "not to meet his 
 engagements." Some proposed to pursue and 
 put him to death ; and this opinion was about to 
 be carried, when Hans Busacher, who had, in all 
 this time, preserved the profoundest silence, now 
 interposed as follows : 
 
 " We may not do as you propose, my friends ; 
 we are bound by our contract to a different course. 
 What says the will of Oberfeldt on this subject ? 
 and how, under his directions, are we to punish a 
 member who flies from his honorable pledge ? 
 We are not to harm a hair of his head ; we are 
 not to shed a drop of his blood ; we are not to 
 break a limb of his body ; we are not to abridge 
 a portion of his breath ; but we are to do all 
 we are to compel him to the performance of the 
 deed by a will and act of his own." 
 
 " How can that be done?" was the general 
 
CONRADE WEICKHOFF. 69 
 
 exclamation. They were astounded, for none of 
 them remembered any such requisitions in the 
 document. 
 
 " Does the will say so ?" was the inquiry of one 
 and all. 
 
 " You shall see for yourselves," was the reply. 
 They read, and, sure enough, there were plainly 
 written down the fatal requisitions. They were 
 aghast, and Hans Busacher smiled scornfully as 
 he beheld their confusion. After a brief pause, 
 he proceeded : 
 
 " Our task is not so difficult as you imagine. 
 Why does Rodolph Steinmyer fly from death ? 
 Because he is in love with life ! Why is he in 
 love with life ? Because there are many things 
 in life which make it worthy of his love. What 
 do we, then, my friends'? Evidently, we are to 
 deprive him of all those objects which make him 
 regardless of his honor. Our work begins from 
 this moment. Come all of you with me into the 
 private room of council. There let us confer to 
 gether, on the best plan for bringing our brother 
 back to the consideration of his duty." 
 
 What they did, to what they pledged them 
 selves, and what they designed in that secret con 
 ference, may not be said. They separated after 
 a brief interval ; and the shade of Oberfeldt 
 
70 CONRADE WEICKHOFF. 
 
 growled at the passage of the anniversary without 
 yielding him any additional companion. 
 
 i v '' 
 XXIX. 
 
 Let us follow the flight of the devoted Rodolph. 
 The poor youth fled madly to his home. In des 
 peration, upon the bosom of his wife he poured 
 forth the whole dreadful narrative. A silent hor 
 ror seized upon her. She was dumb ; she was 
 stupified with dread. She knew of but one re 
 source, and she called upon God ! She implored 
 her husband to kneel with her before the same 
 altar, and he did so ; but when, like her, he strove 
 to call upon God, a wild yell arose from the floor 
 beneath him a yell of fiendish derision that 
 drowned all supplication. At the same moment, 
 a fierce implacable glare shot out from two eyes 
 behind the altar, that seemed like dim and baleful 
 stars, looking forth amidst the gloomy and sudden 
 gusts of September. liodolph sank fainting upon 
 the floor, and Bertha, prostrating herself upon his 
 body, prayed fervently to heaven for the succor 
 and the safety of the doomed one | 
 
 The night passed a night of horror. The 
 day came and passed-^ a day of increasing hor- 
 
CONRADE WEICKHOFF. 71 
 
 ror, as it was one which contributed in a thousand 
 ways to the hopelessness of Rodolph. 
 
 " Let us fly," said the devoted wife ; " let us 
 fly, my Rodolph, into other countries. We shall 
 then be beyond the reach of these people. You 
 can then be at peace, and happy." 
 
 He embraced her, and they determined upon 
 flight. In secrecy he prepared money and jewels 
 for use in a foreign land. His horses were in 
 readiness, a faithful retainer intrusted with the 
 secret only, and every arrangement was made 
 for a start at midnight. It came, and stealing 
 forth with his infant son in his arms, and his wife 
 clinging to his side, Rodolph, when all were 
 asleep, descended to the porch where the carriage 
 was in waiting. They entered the vehicle, and 
 departed ; but as they drove through the portals, 
 they heard voices calling them back, and then a 
 chuckling laugh, which seemed like that of Con- 
 rade. They reached a deep wood, when suddenly 
 the sky became overcast, and they could no longer 
 find their way. A storm of lightning came up, 
 and the horses grew frightened. Strange cries, 
 as of men in battle, reached their ears from the 
 distance, and as they drove forward desperately, 
 the horses sank back in terror from some object 
 which lay in their way. Provocations like these 
 
72 CONRADE WEICKHOFF. 
 
 had aroused all the courage of Rodolph. He 
 alighted from the carriage, and approached the 
 object which had so alarmed the horses. The 
 distinct outline of a man's body, which seemed 
 lifeless, lay in the path. A groan reached his 
 ears. He stooped to the body, to feel if life were 
 yet in its bosom. The figure stretched up its 
 arms, as if to embrace him. At that moment, a 
 sharp flash of lightning showed him the face of 
 Conrade Weickhoff, the head nearly severed from 
 the body. He dashed down the bloody carcass ; 
 leaped again into the vehicle ; while shrieks of 
 demoniac laughter seemed to run and gather in 
 the air, pursuing all around him. With his own 
 hands, nerved by desperation, he drove the career 
 ing horses over the carcass, and heedless of the 
 road, made his way forward. 
 
 " Whither so fast?" cried a strange voice, in 
 front of him. " Would you cross the river in 
 such a freshet, when the bridge is swept away ? 
 Turn, instantly, or you must perish." 
 
 It was a sort of instinct that prompted the next 
 movement of Rodolph. The horses were wheeled 
 round, and, driving without an aim, he drove till 
 daylight. At dawn, the extensive and beautiful 
 domains of a fine castle lay before him. 
 
 " Where am I ?" he demanded of a peasant. 
 
CONRADE WEICKHOFF. 73 
 
 "At the castle of Baron Rodolph ofSteinmyer," 
 was the reply. 
 
 Rodolph was again at home. 
 
 XXX. 
 
 There was a destiny in all this. Rodoiph be 
 gan to perceive how desperate was the contest 
 before him. He devoted himself to meditation 
 upon the means of his escape, and for hours he 
 was absorbed in thought, to the exclusion of all 
 outward consciousness. At length he called to 
 him a faithful adherent : 
 
 " Glaus," he said, " you will take the lady 
 Bertha and her child to Staremberg castle. You 
 will begone instantly, and put yourself in readi 
 ness." 
 
 He then sought Bertha, and told her his inten 
 tion. 
 
 " Once secure at Staremberg, Bertha, and you 
 will not encumber my flight. You can follow me 
 when you hear of my safety in another land. 
 Take with you these jewels and this gold. They 
 will serve us at a future time, and bid defiance to 
 want." 
 
 He opened the caskets as he spoke, but, instead 
 
 VOL. II. 7 
 
 
74 CONRADE WEICKHOFF. 
 
 of gold and jewels, there lay nothing within but a 
 few rocks in an envelop. That envelop was a 
 bloody napkin, marked " Oberfeldt," and having 
 on it a purple stain, which gave the idea of a 
 rudely impressed hand and dagger. The sight 
 almost blinded the horror-stricken youth. The 
 doom was gathering around him. 
 
 At length Bertha and the child, under the 
 guardianship of Glaus, set forward upon the jour 
 ney to her father's castle of Staremberg. Rodolph 
 separated from her at the gate with many tears. 
 When they were gone, he mounted his steed, and 
 rode away gloomily into the forest. It was late 
 in the day when he determined to return. He 
 had meditated his plan thoroughly, and had, at 
 length, devised a scheme which, he flattered him 
 self, would enable him successfully to fly from his 
 persecutors. When he reached the edges of the 
 forest a bright blaze illuminated it, with a light 
 beyond that of day. He was bewildered by the 
 conflagration, and hurried forward. When he 
 had fully emerged from the obscurity of the woods, 
 he knew the extent of the evil. His fine palace 
 was in flames. He reached the gates, and found 
 all his retainers in consternation. The fire was a 
 mystery ; nobody could account for it. While 
 he gazed upon the blazing ruins, he saw amid the 
 
CONRADE WEICKHOFF. 75 
 
 burning masses, two bright eyes glaring upon his 
 own. If he had not been well acquainted with 
 the hateful glare of those eyes, he was yet not 
 ignorant of the source of that fiendish laugh, 
 which rose high above the rock when the tottering 
 walls went down in a final crash. How much 
 less difficult did it now seem to Rodolph to die ! 
 Suffering had already began to blunt sensibility. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 Like an abandoned wretch, he rode over to 
 Staremberg castle. He could not depart without 
 seeing Bertha and his child. Their absence had 
 already half reconciled him to the worst. But 
 where were they ? Neither baron nor baroness had 
 yet seen their daughter and grandson. 
 
 " Trifle not with me, I pray you," cried Ro 
 dolph, In his agony. " Bring me to them. I 
 am in no mood for sport ; I cannot brook delay." 
 
 When assured that they had not yet made their 
 appearance, with a mad yell he rushed away into 
 the forest. The retainers of Staremberg followed 
 in pursuit ; and the old baron himself, who tender 
 ly loved his daughter, did not withhold himself 
 from the search which was instituted for her. It 
 
76 CONRADE WEICKHOFF. 
 
 was the fortune of the unhappy Rodolph to gain 
 the first tidings of his beloved. Midway between 
 his own and Staremberg castle, the carriage lay 
 overturned, and almost torn to pieces. The horses 
 were stiff dead, and yet there were no marks or 
 wounds upon them. They seemed literally to have 
 been blasted. The dead body of a man lay 
 stretched out before a portion of the vehicle, 
 wearing a dress like that of Glaus, to whose cus 
 tody Bertha had been intrusted ; but what was 
 the horror of Rodolph, on approaching the body, 
 to discover the features of his ancient comrade, 
 Conrade Weickhoff, once again visibly before him. 
 And the horrible image unclosed its eyes, and 
 glared upon him, as with a lustful longing, from 
 beneath the sickly glaze which still overspread the 
 rapidly decaying orbs. 
 
 The fear of death was no longer a fear with 
 Rodolph Steinmyer. The goods of life were 
 g One the things which he had lived for, and 
 which had made life a province of delight super 
 seding the desire in his mind for any other, were 
 all gone. The W 7 ife and the child were torn from 
 him for ever murdered, doubtlessly, by the 
 demon fingers of his foul associates, or the demon 
 agents of that awful being with whom, it was now 
 the fear of Rodolph, he had been commercing 
 
CONRADE WEICKHOFF. 77 
 
 but too freely. As he thought on these matters, 
 however, he congratulated himself that, though 
 bargaining with the demon, he had sold him no 
 thing but his life he had not traded away his 
 soul ! Rodolph was not so subtle a casuist as the 
 devil ! A yell of derisive laughter rose in the air 
 around him, the moment that his lips gave utter 
 ance to the absurdity ; and he distinctly beheld the 
 long, bony, and skinless fingers of Conrade Weick- 
 hoflf stretching up toward him from the carcass. 
 
 He rushed away from the dreadful place and 
 spectacle. Madness seemed to prompt his course, 
 and desperation gave him wings. But there was 
 method in his madness. His mind had reached 
 that stage of frenzy in which nothing can touch 
 it farther. He was now insensible to hope and 
 fear, as he was indifferent to life. One met him 
 in his flight, whom he saw not, but the voice of 
 Hans Busacher he knew. 
 
 " We go together," said Hans. 
 
 " We do !" was the reply. 
 
 *' You are waited for !" said the former. 
 
 11 Who waits ?" demanded Rodolph, fiercely. 
 
 A finger rested upon his wrist, and the touch 
 seemed to enfeeble him, while the other briefly re 
 plied 
 
 Oberfeldt ! Weickhoff ! Bertha 1" 
 
78 CONRADE WEICKHOFF. 
 
 "Ha! I am ready!" was the desperate, but 
 shuddering response ; and they entered together 
 the gates of Oberfeldt castle, which immediately 
 closed heavily behind them. There was now no 
 escape for Rodolph, but he thought not of that* 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 Shouts received the fugitive shouts of laugh 
 ter, of scorn, of encouragement and cheer, rang 
 in his senses. The members of the college were 
 all assembled, as if they had been waiting for, 
 and apprized of his coming. He looked round 
 the apartment, and noted their several faces. His 
 emotions were not such as they were when he had 
 previously met his colleagues. He had now no 
 fears. His limbs were firm his muscles rigid 
 and inflexible his nerves unshaken. Yet the 
 pomp of death around him was even more gloom 
 ily grand than ever. The tapestry, that seemed 
 made up of gathering shadows, of mighty spec 
 tres, and the awfulest forms, appeared to contract 
 momently around him. Huge torches, borne in 
 the hands of mute images, waved with a flaring 
 and smoky light, in dense niches of the apartment* 
 Faint tones of musicj followed by an occasional 
 
CONRADE WEICKHOFF. 79 
 
 shriek of laughter, and sometimes by one of pain, 
 came to his senses ; and more than once, as if 
 nearer at hand, the plainings of a child seemed to 
 assail him, as if from his own murdered innocent. 
 This fancy at once drove him forward to his pur 
 pose. 
 
 "I am ready," he exclaimed to the confederates. 
 
 " Not so," said Busacher; " you are to choose 
 your successor. The candidates await you." 
 
 " Must I do this ?" demanded Rodolph, shrink 
 ing from the task of entailing his own dreadful 
 doom upon another. 
 
 "You must!" was the reply; and Busacher 
 led the victim to the chamber in which his prepa 
 rations were to be made. Many were the candi 
 dates who were there, claiming the privileges of 
 eternal sorrow, in connexion with a momentary 
 indulgence. With eyes closed, Rodolph extended 
 his hands, determined to leave to fate that choice 
 which he was bent not to make himself. The per 
 son he touched came forward, and Rodolph, when 
 he looked upon him, beh*eld a fair youth, even 
 younger than himself^ in the man he had selected. 
 He would have amended his choice. He would have 
 taken one of the degraded and besotted candidates 
 whom a long familiarity with vice in all its forms had 
 
80 Cm T RADE WEICKHOFF. 
 
 made callous to all conditions, and utterly hopeless 
 of the future. But he was not allowed to do so, 
 nor would the infatuated youth, so chosen, himself 
 permit of any change. Bitterly, but too late, did 
 Rodolph deplore his error ; but regrets were idle 
 at such a moment. He robed himself in the un 
 hallowed investiture of self-murder. He clutched 
 the bloody knife in his desperate hand. He led 
 his youthful successor into the hall of death. He 
 stood with him before its altar. A dreadful strug 
 gle was going on within his bosom ; for the good 
 angel of a guardian conscience had not yet entire 
 ly given up its trust. But, when he beheld the 
 doubting and the sneering glances of those around 
 him, and when he thought of the wife and child 
 whom he had lost, he hesitated no longer. Fear 
 lessly he leaped upon the bloody board, and the 
 knife was uplifted. As he gave the fatal blow, a 
 shriek, a scream the voice of a woman in a 
 deep agony reached his ears, with the rushing 
 of feet from an adjoining chamber. He knew the 
 tones of that voice. They were those of Bertha. 
 Half conscious only, he strove to raise himself 
 from the bloody bier, and his eyes were turned in 
 the direction whence the sounds proceeded. The 
 tapestry was thrown aside, and his wife her child 
 
CONKADE WEICKHOFF. 81 
 
 in her arms her hair flying in the wind her 
 movements those of a love bordering upon mad 
 ness rushed toward him where he lay. He 
 strove, in the agony of death for the last sick 
 ness was fast overcoming the life-tide at his heart 
 to extend his arms to receive her ; but, at that 
 moment, the form of Hans Busacher passed be 
 tween them. 
 
 " Keep me not back," cried the wretched wo 
 man, " he is mine he is my husband." 
 
 " He is mine!" cried Busacher, in a voice like 
 the falling of a torrent so deep, so startling 
 so sudden at the first. The dim eye of Rodolph 
 gazed up at the intruder, and the form of Bu 
 sacher seemed changed to that of Conrade Weick- 
 hoff. There was the same scornful smile upon 
 his lips, and the ears of the dying man were con 
 scious of the same horrible, chuckling laugh, 
 which had characterized his friend. While he yet 
 looked in amaze, the figure seemed to grow and 
 to expand, and he was now aware that the dreadful 
 personage before him was about to assume another 
 aspect. While he watched with the last lingering 
 consciousness of life, and while the breath flicker 
 ed faintly, and was drawn unresistingly toward 
 the fearful presence which he watched, he beheld 
 the features change from those of Conrade, into a 
 
82 CONRADE WEICKHOFF. 
 
 yet more dreadful character. Then did he feel, 
 for the first time, how completely he was the vic 
 tim ; since, in place of him who had been his 
 friend, he saw, in the moment of his final agony, 
 the triumphant and stony glare which marks the 
 glance of the demon Mephistopheles, whose slave 
 he had become. 
 
LOGOOCHIE 
 
 OR, 
 
 THE BRANCH OF SWEET WATER, 
 
 A LEGEND OF GEORGIA. 
 
LOGOOCHIE. 
 
 I. 
 
 WITH the approach of the white settlers, along 
 the wild but pleasant banks of the St. Mary's 
 river, in the state of Georgia, the startled deities 
 of Indian mythology began to meditate their 
 departure to forests more secure. Tribe after 
 tribe of the aborigines had already gone, and the 
 uncouth gods of their idolatry presided, in num 
 berless instances, only over their deserted habita 
 tions. The savages had carried with them no 
 guardian divinities no hallowed household altars 
 cheering them in their new places of abode, by 
 the acceptance of their sacrifice, and with the 
 promise of a moderate winter, or a successful 
 hunt. In depriving them of the lands descended 
 to them in trust from their fathers, the whites seem 
 also to have exiled them from the sweet and mys- 
 
 VOL. II. 8 
 
86 LOGOOCHIE. 
 
 tic influences, so aptly associated with the vague 
 loveliness of forest life, of their many twilight 
 superstitions. Their new groves, as yet, had no 
 spells for the huntsman ; and the Manneyto of 
 their ancient sires, failed to appreciate their tribute 
 offerings, intended to propitiate his regards, or to 
 disarm his anger. They were indeed outcasts; 
 and, with a due feeling for their exiled worship 
 pers, the forest-gods themselves determined also 
 to depart from those long-hallowed sheltering 
 places in the thick swamps of the Okephanokee, 
 whence, from immemorial time, they had gone 
 forth, to cheer or to chide the tawny hunter in 
 his progress through life. They had served the 
 fathers faithfully, nor were they satisfied that the 
 sons should go forth unattended. They had con 
 secrated his dwellings, they had stimulated his 
 courage, they had thrown the pleasant waters 
 along his path, when his legs failed him in the 
 chase, and his lips were parched with the wander 
 ings of the long day in summer; and though 
 themselves overcome in the advent of superior 
 gods, they had, nevertheless, prompted him to the 
 last, in the protracted struggle^ which he had 
 maintained, for so many years, and with such 
 various successes, against his pale invaders. All 
 that could be done for the feather-crowned and 
 
LOGOOCHIE. 87 
 
 wolf-mantled warrior, had been done, by the di 
 vinities he worshipped. He was overcome, driven 
 away from his ancient haunts, but he still bowed 
 in spirit to the altars, holy still to him, though, 
 haplessly, without adequate power to secure him 
 in his possessions. They determined not to leave 
 him unprotected in his new abodes, and gathering 1 , 
 at the bidding of Satilla, the Mercury of the 
 southern Indians, the thousand gods of their 
 worship the wood-gods and the water-gods 
 crowded to the flower-island of Okephanokee, to 
 hear the commands of the Great Manneyto. 
 
 II. 
 
 All came but Logoochie, and where was he ? 
 he, the Indian mischief-maker the Puck, the 
 tricksiest spirit of them all, he, whose mind, 
 like his body, a creature of distortion, was yet 
 gentle in its wildness, and never suffered the 
 smallest malice to mingle in with its mischief. 
 The assembly was dull without him the season 
 cheerless the feast wanting in provocative. 
 The Great Manneyto him*df, with whom Logoo 
 chie was a favourite, looked impatiently on the 
 approach of every new comer. In vain were all 
 
88 LOGOOCHIE. 
 
 his inquiries where is Logoochie ? who has 
 seien Logoochie ? The question remained unan 
 swered the Great Manneyto unsatisfied. Anx 
 ious search was instituted in every direction for 
 the discovery of the truant. They could hear 
 nothing of him, and all scrutiny proved fruitless. 
 They knew his vagrant spirit, and felt confident 
 he was gone upon some mission of mischief; but 
 they also knew how far beyond any capacity of 
 theirs to detect, was his to conceal himself, and so, 
 after the first attempt at search, the labor was 
 given up in despair. They could get no tidings 
 of Logoochie. 
 
 III. 
 
 The conference went on without him, much to 
 the dissatisfaction of all parties. He was the 
 spice of the entertainment, the spirit of all frolic ; 
 and though sometimes exceedingly annoying, 
 even to the Great Manneyto, and never less so 
 to the rival power of evil, the Opitchi-Manneyto, 
 yet, as the recognized joker on all hands, no one 
 found it wise to take offence at his tricks. In 
 council, he relieved the dull discourse of some 
 drowsy god, by the sly sarcasm, which, falling 
 
LOGOOCHIE. 
 
 89 
 
 innocuously upon the ears of the victim, was yet 
 readily comprehended, and applied by all the rest. 
 On the journey, he kept all around him from any 
 sense of weariness, and, by the perpetual prac 
 tical application of his humor, always furnished 
 his companions, whether above or inferior to him 
 in dignity, with something prime, upon which to 
 make merry. In short, there was no god like 
 Logoochie, and he was as much beloved by the 
 deities, as he was honored by the Indian, who 
 implored him not to turn aside the arrow which 
 he sent after the bounding buck, nor to spill the 
 water out of his scooped leaf as he carried it from 
 the running rivulet up to his mouth. All these 
 were tricks of the playful Logoochie, and by a 
 thousand, such as these, was he known to the 
 Indians. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Where, then, was the absentee when his brother 
 divinities started after the outlawed tribes ? Had 
 he not loved the Indians had he no sympathy 
 with his associate gods and wherefore went he 
 not upon the sad journey through the many 
 swamps and the long stretches of sand and forest, 
 that lay between the Okephanokee, and the ra- 
 8* 
 
90 LOGOOCHIM. 
 
 pidly-gushing waters of the Chatahoochie, wher 
 both the aborigines and their rude deities had 
 now taken up their abodes. Alas ! for Logoo- 
 chie ! He loved the wild people, it is true, and 
 much he delighted in the association of those 
 having kindred offices with himself ; but though 
 a mimic and a jester, fond of sportive tricks, and 
 perpetually practising them on all around him, he 
 was not unlike the memorable buffoon of Paris, 
 who, while ministering to the amusement of thou 
 sands, possessing them with an infinity of fun and 
 frolic, was yet, at the very time, craving a pre 
 cious mineral from the man of science to cure him 
 of his confirmed hypochondria. Such was the 
 condition of Logoochie. The idea of leaving the 
 old woods and the waters to which he had been 
 so long accustomed, and which were associated in 
 his memory with a thousand instances of merri 
 ment, was too much for his most elastic spirits to 
 sustain ; and the summons to depart filled him 
 with a nameless, and, to him, a hitherto unknown 
 form of terror. His organ of inhabitiveness had 
 undergone prodigious increase in the many ex 
 ercises which his mind and mood had practised 
 upon the banks of the beautiful Branch of Sweet 
 Water, where his favorite home had been chosen 
 by a felicitous fancy. It was indeed a spot to be 
 
LOGOOCHJE. 
 
 91 
 
 loved and dwelt upon, and he who surveyed its 
 clear and quiet waters, sweeping pleasantly on 
 ward with a gentle murmur, under the high and 
 bending pine trees that arched over and fenced it 
 in, would have no wonder at its effect upon a 
 spirit so susceptible, amidst all his frolic, as that 
 of Logoochie. The order to depart made him 
 miserable ; he could not think of doing so ; and, 
 trembling all the while, he yet made the solemn 
 determination not to obey the command ; but 
 rather to subject himself, by his refusal, to a loss 
 of caste, and, perhaps, even severer punishment, 
 should he be taken, from the other powers having 
 guardianship with himself, over the wandering 
 red men. With the determination came the exe 
 cution of his will. He secreted himself from 
 those who sought him, and in the hollow of a log 
 lay secure, even while the hunters uttered their 
 conjectures and surmises under the very copse in 
 which he was hidden. His arts to escape were 
 manifold, and, unless the parties in search of him 
 knew intimately his practices, he could easily elude 
 their scrutiny by the simplest contrivances. Such, 
 too, was the susceptibility of his figure for distor 
 tion, that even Satilla, the three eyed, the mes 
 senger of the Indian divinities, the most acute and 
 cunning among them, was not unfrequently over- 
 
92 LOGOOCHIE, 
 
 reached and evaded by the truant Logoochie. 
 He too had searched for him in vain, and though 
 having a shrewd suspicion, as he stepped over a 
 pine knot lying across a path, just about dusk, 
 that it was something more than it seemed to be, 
 yet passing on without examining it, and leaving 
 the breathless Logoochie, for it was he, to gather 
 himself up, the moment his pursuer was out of 
 sight, and take himself off in a more secluded 
 direction. The back of Logoochie was, itself, 
 little better than a stripe of the tree bark to those 
 who remarked it casually. From his heel to his 
 head, inclusive, it looked like so many articulated 
 folds or scales of the pine tree, here and there 
 bulging out into excrescences. The back of his 
 head was a solid knot, for all the world like that 
 of the scorched pine knot, hard and resinous. 
 This knot ran across in front, so as to arch above 
 and overhang his forehead, and was crowned 
 with hair, that, though soft, was thick and woody 
 to the eye, and looked not unlike the plates of the 
 pine-bur when green in season. It rose into a 
 ridge or comb directly across the head from front 
 to rear, like the war tuft of a Seminole warrior. 
 His eyes, small and red, seemed, occasionally, to 
 run into one another, and twinkled so, that you 
 could not avoid laughing but to look upon them* 
 
LOGOOCHIE. 93 
 
 His nose was flat, and the mouth was simply an 
 incision across his face, reaching nigh to both his 
 ears, which lapped and hung over like those of a 
 hound. He was short in person, thick, and 
 strangely bow-legged ; and, to complete the un 
 couth figure, his arms, shooting out from under a 
 high knot, that gathered like an epaulette upon 
 each shoulder, possessed but a single though rather 
 long bone, and terminated in a thick, squab, bur- 
 like hand, having fingers, themselves inflexible, 
 and but of single joints, and tipped, not with 
 nails, but with claws, somewhat like those of the 
 panther, and equally fearful in strife. Such was 
 the vague general outline which, now and then, 
 the Indian hunter, and, after him, the Georgia 
 squatter, caught, towards evening, of the wander 
 ing Logoochie, as he stole suddenly from sight 
 into the sheltering copse, that ran along the edges 
 of some wide savannah. 
 
 The brother divinities of the Creek warriors 
 had gone after their tribes, and Logoochie alone 
 remained upon the banks of the Sweet Water 
 Branch. He remained in spite of many reasons 
 for departure. The white borderer came nigher 
 and nigher, with every succeeding day. The 
 stout log-house started up in the centre of his 
 favorite groves, and many families, clustering 
 
94 LOGOOCHIE. 
 
 within a few miles of his favorite stream, formed 
 the nucleus of the flourishing little town of St. 
 Mary's. Still he lingered, though with a sadness 
 of spirit, hourly increasing, as every hour tended 
 more and more to circumscribe the haunts of his 
 playful wandering. Every day called upon him 
 to deplore the overthrow, by the woodman's axe, 
 of some well remembered tree in his neighbor 
 hood ; and though he strove, by an industrious 
 repetition of his old tricks, to prevent much of this 
 desolation, yet the divinities which the white man 
 brought with him were too potent for Logoochie. 
 In vain did he gnaw by night the sharp edge of 
 the biting steel, with which the squatter wrought 
 so much desolation. Alas ! the white man had 
 an art given him by his God, by which* he 
 smoothed out its repeated gaps, and sharpened it 
 readily again, or found a new one, for the destruc 
 tion of the forest. Over and over again, did Lo 
 goochie think to take the trail of his people, and 
 leave a spot in which a petty strife of this nature 
 had become, though a familiar, a painful practice ; 
 but then, as he thought of the humiliating acknow 
 ledgment which, by so doing, he must offer to his 
 brother gods, his pride came to his aid, and he 
 determined to remain where he was. Then again, 
 as he rambled along the sweet waters of the 
 
LOGOOCHIE. 95 
 
 branch, and talked pleasantly with the trees, his 
 old acquaintance, and looked down upon little 
 groups of Indians that occasionally came to visit 
 this or that tumulus of the buried nations, he felt 
 a sweet pleasure in the thought, that although all 
 were gone of the old possessors, and a new people 
 and new gods had come to sway the lands of his 
 outlawed race, he still should linger and watch 
 over, with a sacred regard, the few relics, and the 
 speechless trophies, which the forgotten time had 
 left them. He determined to remain still, as he 
 long had been, the presiding genius of the place. 
 
 V. 
 
 From habit, at length, it came to Logoochie to 
 serve, with kind offices, the white settlers, just as 
 he had served the red men before him. He soon 
 saw that, in many respects, the people dwelling in 
 the woods, however different their color and ori 
 gin, must necessarily resemble one another. They 
 were in some particulars equally wild and equally 
 simple. He soon discovered, too, that however 
 much they might profess indifference to the super 
 stitions of the barbarous race they had superseded, 
 they were not a whit more secure from the occa- 
 
96 LOGOOCHIE. 
 
 sional tremors which followed his own practices or 
 presence. More than once had he marked the 
 fright of the young woodman, as, looking towards 
 nightfall over his left shoulder, he had beheld the 
 funny twinkling eyes, and the long slit mouth, 
 receding suddenly into the bush behind him. This 
 assured Logoochie of the possession still, even 
 with a new people, of some of that power which 
 he had exercised upon the old ; and when he saw, 
 too, that the character of the white man was plain, 
 gentle, and unobtrusive, he came, after a brief stu 
 dy, to like him also ; though, certainly, in less 
 degree, than his Indian predecessors. From one 
 step of his acquaintance with the new comers to 
 another, Logoochie at length began to visit, at 
 stolen periods, and to prowl around the little cot 
 tage, of the squatter ; sometimes playing tricks 
 upon his household, but more frequently employ 
 ing himself in the analysis of pursuits, and of a 
 character, as new almost to him as to the people 
 whose places they had assumed. Nor will this 
 seeming ignorance, on the part of Logoochie, 
 subtract a single jot from his high pretension as an 
 Indian god, since true philosophy and a delibe 
 rate reason, must, long since, have been aware, that 
 the mythological rule of every people, has been 
 adapted, by the superior of all, to their mental 
 
LOGOOCHIE. 97 
 
 and physical condition ; and the Great Manneyto 
 of the savage, in his primitive state, was, doubt 
 less, as wise a provision for him then, as ; in our 
 time, has been the faith, which we proudly assume 
 to be the close correlative of the highest point of 
 moral liberty and social refiuement. 
 
 VI. 
 
 In this way, making new discoveries daily, and 
 gradually becoming known himself, though vague 
 ly, to the simple cottagers around him, he continu 
 ed to pass the time with something more of satis 
 faction than before ; though still suffering pain at 
 every stroke of the sharp and smiting axe, as it 
 called up the deploring echoes of the rapidly yield 
 ing forest. Day axid night he was busy, and he 
 resumed, in extcmo, many of the playful humors, 
 which used to annoy the savages and compel their 
 homage. It is true, the acknowledgment of the 
 white man was essentially different from that com 
 monly made by the Indians. When their camp- 
 pots were broken, their hatchets blunted, their 
 bows and arrows warped, or they had suffered any 
 other such mischief at his hands, they solemnly 
 deprecated his wrath, and offered him tribute to 
 
 VOL. II. 9 
 
98 LOGOOCHIE. 
 
 disarm his hostility. All that Logoochie could 
 extort from the borderer, was a sullen oath, in 
 which the tricksy spirit was identified with no less 
 a person than the devil, the Opitchi-Manneyto 
 of the southern tribes. This as Logoochie 
 well knew the superior rank of that personage 
 with his people he esteemed a compliment ; and 
 its utterance was at all times sufficiently grateful 
 in his ears to neutralize his spleen at the moment. 
 In addition to this, the habit of smoking more fre 
 quently and freely than the Indians, so common 
 to the white man, contributed wonderfully to com 
 mend him to the favor of Logoochie, The odor 
 in his nostrils was savory in the extreme, and he 
 consequently regarded the smoker as tendering, in 
 this way, the deprecatory sacrifice, precisely as 
 the savages had done before him. So grateful, 
 indeed, was the oblation to his taste, that often, of 
 the long summer evening, would he gather himself 
 into a bunch, in the thick branches of the high 
 tree overhanging the log-house, to inhale the reek 
 ing fumes that were sent up by the half oblivious 
 woodman, as he lay reposing under its grateful 
 shadow. 
 
LOGOOCHIE. 99 
 
 VII. 
 
 There was one of these little cottages, which, 
 for this very reason, Logoochie found great delight 
 ill visiting. It was tenanted by a sturdy old far 
 mer, named Jones, and situated on the skirts of 
 the St. Mary's village, about three miles from the 
 Branch of Sweet Water, the favorite haunt of 
 Logoochie. Jones had a small family consist* 
 ing, besides himself, of his wife, his sister a lady 
 of certain age, and monstrous demure and a 
 daughter, Mary Jones, as sweet a May-flower as 
 the eye of a good taste would ever wish to dwell 
 upon. She was young only sixteen, and had 
 not yet learned a single one of the thousand arts, 
 which, in making a fine coquette, spoil usually a 
 fine woman. She thought purely, and freely said 
 all that she thought. Her old father loved her 
 her mother loved her, and her aunt, she loved her 
 too, and proved it, by doing her own, and the 
 scolding of all the rest, whenever the light-hearted 
 Mary said more in her eyes, or speech, than her 
 aunt's conventional sense of propriety deemed 
 absolutely necessary to be said. This family Lo 
 goochie rather loved, whether it was because 
 
100 LOGOOCHIE. 
 
 farmer Jones did more smoking than any of the 
 neighbors, or his sister more scolding, or his wife 
 more sleeping, or his daughter more loving, we 
 say not, but such certainly was the fact. Mary 
 Jones had learned this latter art, if none other. 
 A tall and graceful lad in the settlement, named 
 Johnson, had found favor in her sight, and she 
 in his ; and it was not long before they made the 
 mutual discovery. He was a fine youth, and quite 
 worthy of the maiden ; but then he was of an in 
 quiring, roving temper, and though not yet arri 
 ved at manhood, frequently indulged in rambles, 
 rather startling, even to a people whose habit in 
 that respect is somewhat proverbial. He had gone 
 in his wanderings even into the heart of the Oke- 
 phanokee Swamp, and strange were the wonders, 
 and wild the stories, which he gave of that region 
 of Indian fable a region, about which they 
 have as many and as beautiful traditions, as any 
 people can furnish from the store house of its pri 
 mitive romance. This disposition on the part 
 of Ned Johnson, though productive of much dis 
 quiet to his friends and family, they hoped to 
 overcome or restrain, by the proposed union with 
 Mary Jones a connexion seemingly acceptable 
 to all parties. Mary, like most other good young 
 ladies, had no doubt, indeed, of her power to con- 
 
LOGOOCHIE. 101 
 
 trol her lover in his wanderings, when once they 
 were man and wife ; and he, like most good young 
 gentlemen in like cases, did not scruple to swear a 
 thousand times, that her love would be as a chain 
 about his feet, too potent to suffer him the slightest 
 indulgence of his rambling desires. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 So things stood, when, one day, what should 
 appear in the Port of St. Mary's the Pioneer 
 of the Line but a vessel a schooner a 
 brightly painted, sharp, cunning looking craft, all 
 the way from the eastern waters, and commanded 
 by one of that daring tribe of Yankees, which 
 will one day control the commercial world. Never 
 had such a craft shown its face in those waters, and 
 great was the excitement in consequence. The 
 people turned out, en masse, men, women, and 
 children, all gathered upon the sands at the 
 point to which she was approaching, and while 
 many stood dumb with mixed feelings of wonder 
 and consternation, others, more bold and elastic, 
 shouted with delight. Ned Johnson led this latter 
 class, and almost rushed into the waters to meet 
 the new comer, clapping his hands and screaming 
 9* 
 
102 LOGOOCHIE, 
 
 like mad. Logoochie himself, from the close 
 hugging branches of a neighboring tree, looked 
 down, and wondered and trembled as he beheld 
 the fast rushing progress toward him of what 
 might be a new and more potent God. Then, 
 when her little cannon, ostentatiously large for the 
 necessity, belched forth its thunders from her side, 
 the joy and the terror was universal. The rude 
 divinity of the red men leaped down headlong 
 from his place of eminence, and bounded on with 
 out stopping, until removed from the sight and the 
 shouting, in the thick recesses of the neighboring 
 wood ; while the children of the squatters taking 
 to their heels, went bawling and squalling back 
 to the village, never thinking for a moment to 
 reach it alive. The schooner cast her anchor, 
 and her captain came to land. Columbus looked 
 not more imposing, leaping first to the virgin soil 
 of the New World, than our worthy down-easter, 
 commencing, for the first time, a successful trade 
 in onions, potatoes, codfish, and crab-cider, with 
 the delighted Georgians of our little village. All 
 parties were overjoyed, and none more so than our 
 young lover, Master Edward Johnson. Pie 
 drank in with willing ears, and a still thirsting ap 
 petite, the narrative which the Yankee captain 
 gave the villagers of his voyage. His long yarn., 
 
LOGOOCH1E. 103 
 
 be sure, was stuffed with wonders. The new 
 comer soon saw from Johnson's looks how greatly 
 he had won the respect and consideration of the 
 youthful wanderer, and, accordingly, addressed 
 some of his more spirited and romantic adventures 
 purposely to him. Poor Mary Jones beheld, 
 with dreadful anticipations, the voracious delight 
 which sparkled in the eyes of Ned as he listened 
 to the marvellous narrative, and had the thing 
 been at all possible or proper, she would have in 
 sisted, for the better control of the erratic boy, 
 that old Parson Collins should at once do his duty, 
 and give her legal authority to say to her lover 
 " obey, my dear, stay at home, or," etc. She 
 went back to the village in great tribulation, and 
 Ned r- lie stayed behind with Captain Nicodemus 
 DoolUtle, of the " Smashing Nancy." 
 
 IX. 
 
 Now Nicodemus, or, as they familiarly called 
 him " Old Nick," was a wonderfully 'cute person- 
 * age ; and as he was rather slack of hands was 
 not much of a penman or grammarian, and felt 
 that in his new trade he should need greatly the 
 assistance of one to whom the awful school mys- 
 
104 LOGOOCHIE. 
 
 tery of fractions and the rule of three had, by a 
 kind fortune, been developed duly he regarded 
 the impression which he had obviously made upon 
 the mind of Ned Johnson, as promising to neu 
 tralize, if he could secure him, some few of his 
 own deficiencies. To this end, therefore, he par 
 ticularly addressed himself, and, as might be sus 
 pected, under the circumstances, he was eminently 
 successful. The head of the youth was soon 
 stuffed full of the wonders of the sea ; and after a 
 day or two of talk, all round the subject, in which 
 time, by the way, the captain sold off all his " no 
 tions," he came point blank to the subject in the 
 little cabin of the schooner. Doolittle sat over 
 against him with a pile of papers before him, 
 some of which, to the uneducated down-easter, were 
 grievous mysteries, calling for a degree of arith 
 metical knowledge which was rather beyond his 
 capacity. His sales and profits his accounts 
 with creditors and debtors were lobe registered, 
 and these required him to reconcile the provoking 
 cross currencies of the different states the York 
 shilling, the Pennsylvania levy, the Georgia 
 thrip, the pickayune of Louisiana, the Carolina 
 fourpence and this matter was, alone, enough 
 to bother him. He knew well enough how to 
 count the coppers on hearing them. No man 
 was more expert at that. But the difficulty of 
 
LOGOOCHIE. 105 
 
 bringing 1 them into one currency on paper, called 
 for a more experienced accountant than our wor 
 thy captain ; and the youth wondered to behold 
 the ease with which so great a person could be 
 bothered. Doolittle scratched his head in vain. 
 He crossed his right leg over his left, but still he 
 failed to prove his sum. He reversed the move 
 ment, and the left now lay problematically of the 
 right. The product was very hard to find. He 
 took a sup of cider, and then he thought things 
 began to look a little clearer; but a moment after 
 all was cloud again, and at length the figures 
 absolutely seemed to run -into one another. He 
 could stand it no longer, and slapped his hand 
 down, at length, with such emphasis upon the 
 table, as to startle the poor youth, who, all the 
 while, had been dreaming of plunging and wrig 
 gling dolphins, seen in all their gold and glitter, 
 three feet or less in the waters below the advancing 
 prow of the ship. The start which Johnson made, 
 at once showed the best mode to the captain of 
 extrication from his difficulty. 
 
 " There there, my dear boy, take some 
 cider only a little do you good best thing 
 in the world There, and now do run up these 
 figures, and see how we agree." 
 
 Ned was a clever led, and used to stand head 
 
106 LOGOOCIIIE. 
 
 of his class. He unravelled the mystery in little 
 time reconciled the cross-currency of the seve 
 ral sovereign states, and was rewarded by his pat 
 ron with a hearty slap upon the shoulder, and 
 another cup of cider. It was not difficult after 
 this to agree, and half fearing that all the while 
 he was not doing right by Mary Jones, he dashed 
 his signature, in a much worse hand than he was 
 accustomed to write, upon a printed paper which 
 Doolittle thrust to him across the table. 
 
 "And now, my dear boy," said the captain, 
 "you are my secretary, and shall have best berth, 
 and place along with myself, in the { Smashing 
 Nancy.' " 
 
 The bargain had scarcely been struck, and the 
 terms well adjusted with the Yankee captain, be 
 fore Ned Johnson began to question the propriety 
 of what he had done. He was not so sure that 
 he hud not been hasty, and felt that the pain his 
 departure would inflict upon Mary Jones, would 
 certainly be as great in degree, as the pleasure 
 which his future adventures must bring to himself. 
 Still, when he looked forward to those adventures, 
 
LOGOOCHTE. 107 
 
 and remembered the thousand fine stones of Cap 
 tain Doolittle, his dreams came back, and with 
 them came a due forgetfulness of the hum-drum 
 happiness of domestic life. The life in the woods, 
 indeed as if there was life, strictly speaking, in 
 the eternal monotony of the pine forests, and the 
 drowsy hum they keep up so ceaselessly. Wood- 
 chopping, too, was his aversion, and when he re 
 flected upon the acknowledged superiority of his 
 own over all the minds about him, he felt that his 
 destiny called upon him for better things, and a 
 more elevated employment. He gradually began 
 to think of Mary Jones, as of one of those in 
 fluences which had substracted somewhat from the 
 nature and legitimate exercises of his own genius ; 
 and whose claims, therefore, if acknowledged by 
 him, as she required, must only be acknowledged 
 at the expense and sacrifice of the higher pursuits 
 and purposes for which the discriminating Provi 
 dence had designed him. The youth's head was 
 fairly turned by his ambitious yearnings, and it 
 was strange how sublimely metaphysical his mu 
 sings now made him. He began to analyze close 
 ly the question, since made a standing one among 
 the phrenologists, as to how far particular heads 
 were intended for particular pursuits. General prin 
 ciples were soon applied to special developments in 
 his own case, and he came to the conclusion, just as 
 
108 
 
 LOG'OOCHIE, 
 
 he placed his feet upon the threshold of Father 
 Jones's cottage, that he should be contending with 
 the aim of fate, and the original design of the 
 Deity in his own creation, if he did not go with 
 Captain Nicodemus Doolittle, of the " Smashing 
 Nancy." 
 
 XI. 
 
 " Ahem ! Mary " said Ned, finding the little 
 girl conveniently alone, half sorrowful, and turn 
 ing the whizzing spinning wheel. 
 
 "Ahem, Mary ahem " and as he brought 
 forth the not very intelligible introduction, his eye 
 had in it a vague indeterminateness that looked 
 like confusion, though, truth to speak, his head 
 was high and confident enough. 
 
 "Well, Ned " 
 
 " Ahem ! ah, Mary, what did you think of the 
 beautiful vessel. Was n't she fine, eh ?" 
 
 "Very very fine, Ned, though she was so 
 large, and, when the great gun was fired, my 
 heart beat so I was so frightened, Ned that I 
 was." 
 
 "Frightened why what frightened you, Ma 
 ry," exclaimed Ned proudly " that was grand, 
 
LOGOOCHIE. 109 
 
 and as soon as we get to sea, I shall shoot it off 
 myself." 
 
 " Get to sea why, Ned get to sea. Oh, 
 dear, why what do you mean f" and the be 
 wildered girl, half conscious only, yet doubting 
 her senses, now left the wheel, and came toward 
 the contracted secretary of Captain Doolittle. 
 
 " Yes, get to sea, Mary. What ! don't you 
 know I'm going with the captain clear away to 
 New York f" 
 
 Now, how should she know, poor girl ? He 
 knew that she was ignorant ; but as he did not feel 
 satisfied of the propriety of what he had done, 
 his phraseology had assumed a somewhat indirect 
 and distorted complexion. 
 
 " You going with the Yankee, Ned you don't 
 say." 
 
 " Yes, but I do and what if he is a Yankee, 
 and sells notions I'm sure, there's no harm in 
 that ; he's a main smart fellow, Mary, and such 
 wonderful things as he has seen, it would make 
 your hair stand on end to hear him. I'll see them 
 too, Mary, and then tell you." 
 
 "Oh, Ned, you're only joking now you 
 don't mean it, Ned you only say so to tease me 
 Isn't it so, Ned say it is say yes, dear 
 Ned, only say yes." 
 
 VOL. II. 10 
 
110 LOGOOCHIE. 
 
 And the poor girl caught his arm, with all the 
 confiding warmth of an innocent heart, and as the 
 tears gathered slowly, into big drops, in her eyes, 
 and they were turned appealingly up to his, the 
 heart of the wanderer smote him for the pain it 
 had inflicted upon one so gentle. In that moment, 
 he felt that he would have given the world to get 
 off from his bargain with the captain ; but this 
 mood lasted not long. His active imagination, 
 provoking a curious thirst after the unknown ; and 
 his pride, which suggested the weakness of a 
 vacillating purpose, all turned and stimulated him 
 to resist and refuse the prayer of the conciliating 
 affection, then beginning to act within him in re 
 buke. Speaking through his teeth, as if he dread 
 ed that he should want firmness, he resolutely 
 reiterated what he had said ; and, while the sad 
 girl listened, silently, as one thunder struck, he 
 went on to give a glowing description of the 
 wonderful discoveries in store for him during the 
 proposed voyage. Mary sunk back upon her stool, 
 and the spinning wheel went faster than ever ; but 
 never in her life had she broken so many tissues. 
 He did his best at consolation, but the true heart 
 ed girl, though she did not the less suffer as he 
 pleaded, at least forbore all complaint. The thing 
 seemed irrevocable, and so she resigned herself, 
 
LOGOOCHIE. Ill 
 
 like a true woman, to the imperious necessity. 
 Ned, after a while, adjusted his plaited straw to 
 his cranium, and sallied forth with a due impor 
 tance in his strut, but with a swelling something 
 at his heart, which he tried in vain to quiet. 
 
 XII. 
 
 And what of poor Mary the disconsolate, the 
 deserted and denied of love. She said nothing, 
 ate her dinner in silence, and then putting on her 
 bonnet, prepared to sally forth in a solitary ram 
 ble. 
 
 " What ails it, child," said old Jones, with a 
 rough tenderness of manner. 
 
 " Where going, baby ?" asked her mother, half 
 asleep. 
 
 " Out again, Mary Jones out again," voci 
 ferously shouted the antique aunt, who did all the 
 family scolding. 
 
 The little girl answered them all meekly, with 
 out the slightest show of impatience, and proceed 
 ed on her walk. 
 
 The " Branch of Sweet Water," now known 
 by this name to all the villagers of St. Mary's, 
 was then, as it was supposed to be his favorite 
 
132 LOGOOCHIE. 
 
 place of abode, commonly styled, " The Branch 
 of Logoochie." The Indians such stragglers 
 as either lingered behind their tribes, or occasion 
 ally visited the old scenes of their home, had 
 made the white settlers somewhat acquainted with 
 the character, and the supposed presence of that 
 playful God, in the region thus assigned him ; 
 and though not altogether assured of the idleness 
 of the superstition, the young and innocent Mary 
 Jones had no apprehensions of his power. She, 
 indeed, had no reason for fear, for Logoochie had 
 set her down, long before, as one of his favorites. 
 Jle had done her many little services, of which 
 she was unaware, nor was she the only member of 
 her family indebted to his ministering good will. 
 He loved them all all but the scold, and many 
 of the annoyances to which the old maid was sub 
 ject, arose from this antipathy of Logoochie. But 
 to return. 
 
 It; was in great tribulation that Mary set out for 
 her usual ramble along the banks of the " Sweet 
 Water." Heretofore most of her walks in that 
 quarter had been made in company with her lover. 
 Here, perched in some sheltering oak, or safely 
 doubled up behind some swollen pine, the playful 
 Logoochie, himself unseen, a thousand times look 
 ed upon the two loversj as, with linked arms, and 
 
LOGOOCHIE. 113 
 
 .. 
 
 spirits maintaining, as it appeared, a perfect uni 
 son, they walked in the shade during the summer 
 afternoon. Though sportive and mischievous, 
 such sights were pleasant to one who dwelt alone ; 
 and there were many occasions, when, their love 
 first ripening into expression, he would divert from 
 their path, by some little adroit art or manage 
 ment of his own, the obtrusive and unsympathi- 
 sing woodman, who might otherwise have spoiled 
 the sport which he could not be permitted to share. 
 Under his unknown sanction and service, there 
 fore, the youthful pair had found love a rapture, 
 until, at length, poor Mary had learned to regard 
 it as a necessary too. She knew the necessity 
 from the privation, as she now rambled alone ; her 
 wandering lover meanwhile improving his know 
 ledge by some additional chit-chat, on matters and 
 things in general, with the captain, with whom he 
 had that day dined heartily on codfish and pota 
 toes, a new dish to young Johnson* which gave 
 him an additional idea of the vast resources of the 
 
 sea. 
 
 10* 
 
114 LOGOOCHIE. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Mary Jones at length trod the banks of the 
 Sweet Water, and footing it along the old path 
 way to where the rivulet narrowed, she stood 
 under the. gigantic tree which threw its sheltering 
 and concealing arms completely across the stream. 
 With an old habit, rather than a desire for its re 
 freshment, she took the gourd from the limb whence 
 it depended, pro bono publico, over the water, and 
 scooping up a draught of the innocent beverage, 
 she proceeded to drink, when, just as she carried 
 the vessel to her lips, a deep moan assailed her 
 ears, as from one in pain, and at a little distance. 
 She looked up, and the moan was repeated, and 
 with increased fervency. She saw nothing, how 
 ever, and somewhat startled, was about to turn 
 quickly on her way homeward, when a third and 
 more distinct repetition of the moan appealed so 
 strongly to her natural sense of duty, that she 
 could stand it no longer ; and with the noblest of 
 all kinds of courage, for such is the courage of 
 humanity, she hastily tripped over the log which 
 ran across the stream, and proceeded in the direc 
 tion from whence the sounds had issued. A few 
 
LOGOOCHIE. 
 
 115 
 
 paces brought her in sight of the sufferer, who 
 was no other than our solitary acquaintance, Lo- 
 goochie. He lay upon the grass, doubled now 
 into a knot, and now stretching and writhing him 
 self about in agony. His whole appearance in 
 dicated suffering, and there was nothing equivocal 
 in the expression of his meanings. The astonish 
 ment, not to say fright, of the little cottage maiden, 
 may readily be conjectured. She saw, for the 
 first time, the hideous and uncouth outline of his 
 person the ludicrous combination of feature in 
 his face. She had heard of Logoochie, vaguely; 
 and without giving much, if any credence, to the 
 mysterious tales related by the credulous woodman, 
 returning home at evening, of his encounter in the 
 forest with its pine-bodied divinity ; and now, 
 as she herself looked down upon the suffering and 
 moaning monster, it would be difficult to say, 
 whether curiosity or fear was the most active prin 
 ciple in her bosom. He saw her approach, and 
 he half moved to rise and fly ; but a sudden pang, 
 as it seemed, brought him back to a due sense of 
 the evil from which he was suffering, and, looking 
 towards the maiden with a mingled expression of 
 good humor and pain in his countenance, he seem 
 ed to implore her assistance. The poor girl did 
 not exactly know what to do, or what to conjee- 
 
116 LOGOOCHIE. 
 
 ture. What sort of monster was it before her. 
 What queer, distorted, uncouth limbs what 
 eyes, that twinkled and danced into one another 
 and what a mouth. She was stupified for a 
 moment, until he spoke, and, stranger still, in a 
 language that she understood. And what a mu 
 sical voice,; how sweetly did the words roll forth, 
 and how soothingly, yet earnestly, did they strike 
 upon her ear. Language is indeed a god, and 
 powerful before all the rest. His words told her 
 all his misfortunes, and the tones were all-sufficient 
 to inspire confidence in one even more suspicious 
 than our innocent cottager. Besides, humanity 
 was a principle in her heart, while fear was only 
 an emotion, and she did not scruple, where the two 
 conflicted, after the pause for reflection of a mo 
 ment, to determine in favor of the former. She 
 approached Logoochie she approached him, 
 firmly determined in her purpose, but trembling 
 all the while. As she drew nigh, the gentle mon 
 ster stretched himself out at length, patiently ex 
 tending one foot towards her, and raising it in 
 such a manner as to indicate the place which af 
 flicted him. She could scarce forbear laughing, 
 when she looked closely upon the strange feet. 
 They seemed covered with bark, like that of the 
 small leafed pine tree ; but as she stooped, to her 
 
LOGOOCHIE. 117 
 
 great surprise, the coating of his sole flew wide 
 as if upon a hinge, showing below it a skin as 
 soft, and white, and tender, seemingly, as her 
 own. There, in the centre of the hollow, lay the 
 cause of his suffering. A poisonous thorn had 
 penetrated, almost to the head, as he had sudden 
 ly leaped from the tree, the day before, upon the 
 gun being fired from the " Smashing Nancy." 
 The spot around it was greatly inflamed, and Lo- 
 goochie, since the accident, had vainly striven, in 
 every possible way, to rid himself of the intruder. 
 His short, inflexible arms, had failed so to reach 
 it as to make his fingers available ; and then, 
 having claws rather than nails, he could scarce 
 have done any thing for his own relief, even 
 could they have reached it. He now felt 
 the evil of his isolation, and the danger of his 
 seclusion from his brother divinities. His case 
 was one, indeed, of severe bachelorism ; and, 
 doubtless, had his condition been less than that of 
 a deity, the approach of Mary Jones to his aid, 
 at such a moment, would have produced a deci 
 ded revolution in his domestic economy. Still 
 trembling, the maiden bent herself down to the 
 task, and with a fine courage, that did not allow 
 his uncouth limbs to scare, or his wild and mon 
 strous features to deter, she applied her own small 
 fingers to the foot, and carefully grappling the 
 
118 LOGOOCHIE. 
 
 head of the wounding thorn with her nails, with 
 a successful effort, she drew it forth, and rid him 
 of his encumbrance. The wood-god leaped to 
 his feet, threw a dozen antics in the air, to the 
 great terror of Mary, then running a little way 
 into the forest, soon returned with a handful of 
 fresh leaves, which he bruised between his fingers, 
 and applied to the irritated and wounded foot. 
 He was well in a moment after, and pointing the 
 astonished Mary to the bush from which he had 
 taken the anointing leaves, thus made her acquaint 
 ed with one item in the history of Indian phar 
 macy. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 " The daughter of the white clay she has 
 come to Logoochie, to Logoochie when he was 
 suffering. 
 
 " She is a good daughter to Logoochie, and 
 the green spirits who dwell in the forest, they love, 
 and will honor her. 
 
 " They will throw down the leaves before her, 
 they will spread the branches above her, they will 
 hum a sweet song in the tree top, when she walks 
 underneath it. 
 
LOGOOCHIE. 119 
 
 " They will watch beside her, as she sleeps in 
 the shade, in the warm sun of the noon-day, 
 they will keep the flat viper, and the war rattle, 
 away from her ear. 
 
 " They will do this in honor to Logoochie, for 
 they know Logoochie, and he loves the pale 
 daughter. She came to him in his suffering. 
 
 " She drew the poison thorn from his foot - 
 she fled not away when she saw him. 
 
 " Speak, let Logoochie hear there is sor 
 row in the face of the pale daughter. Logoochie 
 would know it and serve her, for she is sweet in 
 the eye of Logoochie." 
 
 XV. 
 
 Thus said, or rather sung, the uncouth god, to 
 Mary, as, after the first emotions of his own joy 
 were over^ he beheld the expression of melancho 
 ly in her countenance. Somehow, there was 
 something so fatherly, so gentle, and withal, so 
 melodious, in his language, that she soon unbosom 
 ed herself to him, telling him freely and in the 
 utmost confidence, though without any hope of 
 relief at his hands, the history of her lover, and 
 the new project for departure which he had now 
 
120 LOGOOCHIE. 
 
 got in his head. She was surprised, and pleased, 
 when she saw that Logoochie smiled at the nar 
 rative. She was not certain, yet she had a vague 
 hope, that he could do something for her relief; 
 and her conjecture was not in vain. He spoke 
 " Why should the grief be in the heart and the 
 cloud on the face of the maiden ? Is not Logoo 
 chie to help her ? He stands beside her to help. 
 Look, daughter of the pale clay look ! There 
 is power in the leaf that shall serve thee at the 
 bidding of Logoochie ; the bough and the 
 branch have a power for thy good, when Logoo 
 chie commands ; and the little red-berry which I 
 now pluck from the vine hanging over thee, it is 
 strong with a spirit which is good in thy work, 
 when Logoochie has said in thy service. Lo, I 
 speak to the leaf, and to the bough, and to the 
 berry. They shall speak to the water, and one 
 draught from the branch of Logoochie, shall put 
 chains on the heart of the youth who would go 
 forth with the stranger." 
 
 As he spoke, he gathered the leaf, broke a bough 
 from an overhanging tree, and, with a red berry, 
 pulled from a neighboring vine, approached the 
 Branch of Sweet Water, and turning to the west, 
 muttered a wild spell of Indian power, than threw 
 the tributes into the rivulet. The smooth surface 
 
LOGOOCHIE. 121 
 
 of the stream was in an instant ruffled the offer 
 ings were whirled suddenly around the waters 
 broke, boiled, bubbled, and parted, and in another 
 moment, the bough, the berry, and the leaf, 
 had disappeared from their sight. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Mary Jones was not a little frightened by these 
 exhibitions, but she was a girl of courage, and 
 having once got over the dread and the novelty 
 of contact with a form so monstrous as that of 
 Logoochie, the after effort was not so great. She 
 witnessed the incantations of the demon without 
 a word, and when they were over, she simply lis 
 tened to his farther directions, half stupified with 
 what she had seen, and not knowing how much of 
 it to believe. He bade her bring her lover, as 
 had been the custom with them hitherto, to the 
 branch, and persuade him to drink of its waters. 
 When she inquired into its effect, which, at length, 
 with much effort, she ventured to do, he bade her 
 be satisfied, and all would go right. Then, with 
 a word, which was like so much music a word 
 she did not understand, but which sounded like a 
 parting acknowledgment, he bounded away 
 
 VOL. ii. 11 
 
122 LOGOOCHIE. 
 
 into the woods, and, a moment after, was com 
 pletely hidden from her sight. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 Poor Mary, not yet relieved from her surprise, 
 was still sufficiently aroused and excited to believe 
 there was something in it ; and as she moved off 
 on her way home, how full of anticipation was her 
 thoughts pleasant anticipation, in which her 
 heart took active interest, and warmed, at length, 
 into a strong and earnest hope. She scarcely 
 gave herself time to get home, and never did the 
 distance between Sweet Water Branch and the 
 cottage of her father appear so extravagantly 
 great. She reached it, however, at last ; and there, 
 to her great joy, sat her lover, alongside the old 
 man, and giving him a glowing account, such as 
 he had received from the Yankee captain, of the 
 wonders to be met with in his coming voyage. 
 Old Jones listened patiently, puffing his pipe all 
 the while, and saying little, but now and then, by 
 way of commentary, uttering an ejaculatory grunt, 
 most commonly, of sneering disapproval. 
 
 " Better stay at home, ad d sight, Ned John 
 son, and follow the plough." 
 II. 
 
LOGOOCHIE. 123 
 
 Ned Johnson, however, thought differently, and 
 it was not the farmer's grunts or growlings that 
 was now to change his mind. Fortunately for the 
 course of true love, there were other influences at 
 work, and the impatience of Mary Jones to try 
 them was evident, in the clumsiness which she ex 
 hibited while passing the knife under the thin crust 
 of the corn hoe-cake that night for supper, and 
 laying the thick masses of fresh butter between 
 the smoking and savory-smelling sides, as she 
 turned them apart. The evening wore, at length, 
 and, according to an old familiar habit, the lovers 
 walked forth to the haunted and fairy-like branch 
 of Logoochie, or the Sweet Water. It was the 
 last night in which they were to be together, prior 
 to his departure in the Smashing Nancy. That 
 bouncing vessel and her dexterous captain were 
 to depart with early morning ; and it was as little 
 as Ned Johnson could do, to spend that night 
 with his sweetheart. They were both melancho 
 ly enough, depend upon it. She, poor girl, hoping 
 much, yet still fearing for when was true love 
 without fear she took his arm, hung fondly upon 
 it, and, without a word between them for a long 
 while, inclined him, as it were naturally, in the 
 required direction. Ned really loved her, and 
 was sorry enough when the thought came to him, 
 
124 LOGOOCHIE. 
 
 that this might be the last night of their associa 
 tion ; but he plucked up courage, with the mo 
 mentary weakness, and though he spoke kindly, 
 yet he spoke fearlessly, and with a sanguine tem 
 per, upon the prospect of the sea-adventure be 
 fore him. Mary said little her heart was too 
 full for speech, but she looked up now and then 
 into his eyes, and he saw, by the moonlight, 
 that her own glistened as with tears. He turned 
 away his glance as he saw it, for his heart smote 
 him with the reproach of her desertion a 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 They came at length to the charmed streamlet, 
 the Branch of the Sweet Water, to this day known 
 for its fascinations. The moon rose sweetly above 
 it, the trees coming out in her soft light, and the 
 scatterings of her thousand beams glancing from 
 the green polish of their crowding leaves. The 
 breeze that rose along with her was soft and woo 
 ing as herself; while the besprinkling fleece of the 
 small white clouds, clustering along the sky, and 
 flying from her splendors, made the scene, if pos 
 sible, far more fairy-like and imposing. It was a 
 scene for love, and the heart of Ned Johnson 
 
LOGOOCHIE. 125 
 
 grew more softened than ever. His desire for 
 adventure grew modified ; and when Mary bent 
 to the brooklet, and scooped up the water for him 
 to drink, with the water-gourd that hung from the 
 bough, wantoning in the breeze that loved to play 
 over the pleasant stream, Ned could not help think 
 ing she never looked more beautiful. The water 
 trickled from the gourd as she handed it to him, 
 falling like droppings of the moonshine again into 
 its parent stream. You should have seen her eye 
 
 so full of hope so full of doubt so beauti 
 ful so earnest, as he took the vessel from her 
 hands. For a moment he hesitated, and then how 
 her heart beat and her limbs trembled. But he 
 drank off the contents at a draught, and gave no 
 sign of emotion. Yet his emotions were strange 
 and novel. It seemed as if so much ice had gone 
 through his veins in that moment. He said no 
 thing, however, and dipping up a gourd full for 
 Mary, he hung the vessel again upon the pendant 
 bough, and the two moved away from the water 
 
 not, however, before the maiden caught a 
 glimpse, through the intervening foliage, of those 
 two queer, bright, little eyes of Logoochie, with 
 a more delightful activity than ever, dancing gay- 
 ly into one. 
 
 11* 
 
126 LOGOOCHIE. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 But the spell had been effectual, and a new na 
 ture filled the heart of him, who had heretofore 
 sighed vaguely for the unknown. The roving 
 mood had entirely departed ; he was no longer a 
 wanderer in spirit, vexed to be denied. A soft 
 languor overspread his form a weakness gather 
 ed and grew about his heart, and he now sighed 
 unconsciously. How soft, yet how full of em 
 phasis, was the pressure of Mary's hand upon his 
 arm as she heard that sigh ; and how forcibly did 
 it remind the youth that she who walked beside 
 him was his own his own forever. With the 
 thought came a sweet perspective a long vista 
 rose up before his eyes, crowded with images of 
 repose and plenty, such as the domestic nature 
 likes to dream of. 
 
 " Oh, Mary, I will not go with this captain 
 I will not, I will stay at home with you, and we 
 shall be married." 
 
 Thus foe spoke, as the crowding thoughts, such 
 as we have described, came up before his fancy. 
 
 "Will you shall we f Oh, dear Edward, I 
 am so happy." 
 
LOGOOCHIE. 327 
 
 And the maiden blessed Logoochie, as she ut 
 tered her response of happy feeling. 
 
 " I will, dear but I must hide from Doolittle. 
 I have signed papers to go with him, and he will 
 be so disappointed I must hide from him." 
 
 "Why must you hide, Edward he cannot 
 compel you to go, unless you please ; and you 
 just to be married." 
 
 Edward thought she insisted somewhat unne 
 cessarily upon the latter point, but he replied to 
 the first. 
 
 " I am afraid he can. I signed papers I 
 don't know what they were, for I was rash and 
 foolish but they bound me to go with him, and 
 unless I keep out of the way, I shall have to go." 
 
 " Oh, dear why, Ned, where will you go 
 you must hide close, I would not have him find 
 you for the world." 
 
 "I reckon not. As to the hiding, I can go 
 where all St. Mary's can't find me ; and that's in 
 Okephanokee." 
 
 "Oh, don't go so far it is so dangerous, for 
 some of the Seminoles are there !" 
 
 " And what if they are ? I don't care that for 
 the Seminoles. They never did me any harm, 
 and never will. But, I shan't go quite so far. 
 Bull swamp is close enough for me, and there I 
 
128 LOGOOCHIE. 
 
 can watch the 'Smashing Nancy' 'till she gets 
 out to sea." 
 
 XX. 
 
 Having thus determined, it was not long before 
 Ned Johnson made himself secure in his place of 
 retreat, while Captain Doolittle, of the " Smashing 
 Nancy," in great tribulation, ransacked the vil 
 lage of St. Mary's in every direction for his arti 
 cled seaman, for such Ned Johnson had indeed 
 become. Doolittle deserved to lose him for the 
 trick which, in this respect, he had played upon 
 the boy. His search proved fruitless, and he was 
 compelled to sail at last. Ned, from the top of a 
 high tree on the edge of Bull swamp, watched his 
 departure, until the last gleam of the white sail 
 flitted away from the horizon ; then descending, 
 he made his way back to St. Mary's, and it was 
 not long before he claimed and received the hand 
 of his pretty cottager in marriage. Logoochie 
 was never seen in the neighborhood after this 
 event. His accident had shown him the necessity 
 of keeping with his brethren, for, reasoning from 
 all analogy, gods must be social animals not less 
 
LOGOOCHIE. 129 
 
 than men. But, in departing, he forgot to take 
 the spell away which he had put upon the Sweet 
 Water Branch ; and to this day, the stranger, 
 visiting St. Mary's, is warned not to drink from 
 the stream, unless he proposes to remain ; for still, 
 as in' the case of Ned Johnson, it binds the feet 
 and enfeebles the enterprise of him who partakes 
 of its pleasant waters. 
 
JOCASSEE. 
 
 A story of the old-time Cherokee, 
 
 Of a true-love, that, like an angel's breath, 
 
 Hath a sweet fragrance, still surviving death, 
 
 And a bloom Time can touch not won from high; 
 
 A flow'r for such is true love of the sky. 
 
JOCASSEE 
 
 " KEOWEE Old Fort," as the people in that 
 quarter style it, is a fine antique ruin and relic of 
 the revolution, in the district of Pendleton, South 
 Carolina. The region of country in which we 
 find it, of itself, is highly picturesque and interest 
 ing. The broad river of Keowee, which runs 
 through it, though comparatively small, as a 
 stream, in America, would put to shame, by its 
 size, not less than its beauty, one half of the far- 
 famed and boasted rivers of Europe ; and then 
 the mountains, through and among which it winds 
 its way, embody more of beautiful situation and 
 romantic prospect, than art can well figure to the 
 eye, or language convey to the imagination. To 
 understand, you must see it. Words are of little 
 
 VOL. ii. 12 
 
134 JOCASSEE. 
 
 avail when the ideas overcrowd utterance ; and 
 even vanity itself is content to be dumb in the 
 awe inspired by a thousand prospects, like Nia 
 gara, the ideal of a god, and altogether beyond 
 the standards common to humanity. 
 
 It is not long since I wandered through this in 
 teresting region, under the guidance of my friend, 
 
 Col. G , who does the honors of society, 
 
 in that quarter, with a degree of ease and unosten 
 tatious simplicity, which readily makes the visiter 
 at home. My friend was one of those citizens to 
 whom one's own country is always of paramount 
 interest, and whose mind and memory, according 
 ly, have been always most happily employed when 
 storing away and digesting into pleasing narrative 
 those thousand little traditions of the genius loci, 
 which give life to rocks and valleys, and people 
 earth with the beautiful colors and creatures of 
 the imagination. These, for the gratification 
 of the spiritual seeker, he had forever in readi 
 ness ; and, with him to illustrate them, it is not 
 surprising if the grove had a moral existence in 
 my thoughts, and all the waters around breathed, 
 and were instinct with poetry. To all his narra 
 tives I listened with a satisfaction which book-sto 
 ries do not often afford me. The more he told, 
 the more he had to tell ; for nothing staled 
 
JOCASSEE. 135 
 
 " His infinite variety." 
 
 There may have been something in the style of 
 telling his stories ; there was much, certainly, that 
 was highly attractive in his manner of doing 
 every thing, and this may have contributed not a 
 little to the success of his narratives. Perhaps, 
 too, my presence, upon the very scene of each 
 legend, may have given them a life and a vraisem- 
 blance they had wanted otherwise. 
 
 In this manner, rambling about from spot to 
 spot, I passed five weeks, without being, at any 
 moment, conscious of time's progress. Day after 
 day, we wandered forth in some new direction, 
 contriving always to secure, and without effort, 
 that pleasurable excitement of novelty, for which 
 the great city labors in vain, spite of her vary 
 ing fashions, and crowding, and not always in 
 nocent indulgences. From forest to river, from 
 hill to valley, still on horseback, for the moun 
 tainous character of the country forbade any more 
 luxurious form of travel, we kept on our way, 
 always changing our ground with the night, and 
 our prospect with the morning. In this manner 
 we travelled over or round the Six Mile, and the 
 Glassy, and a dozen other mountains ; and some 
 times, with a yet greater scope of adventure, 
 
136 JOCASSEE. 
 
 pushed off on a much longer ramble, such as 
 took us to the falls of the White Water, and gave 
 us a glimpse of the beautiful river of Jocassee, 
 named sweetly after the Cherokee maiden, who 
 threw herself into its bosom on beholding the scalp 
 of her lover dangling from the neck of his con 
 queror. The story is almost a parallel to that of 
 the sister of Horatius, with this difference, that 
 our Cherokee girl did not wait for the vengeance 
 of her brother, and altogether spared her re 
 proaches. I tell the story, which is pleasant and 
 curious, in the language of my friend, from whom 
 I first heard it. 
 
 II. 
 
 " The Occonies and the Little Estatoees, or, 
 rather, the Brown Vipers and the Green Birds, 
 were both minor tribes of the Cherokee nation, 
 between whom, as was not unfrequently the case, 
 there 7 sprung up a deadly enmity. The Estatoees 
 had their town on each side of the two creeks, 
 which, to this day, keep their name, and on the 
 eastern side of the Keowee river. The Occonies 
 occupied a much larger extent of territory, but it 
 lay on the opposite, or west side of the same river. 
 
JOCASSEE. 137 
 
 Their differences were supposed to have arisen 
 from the defeat of Chatuga, a favorite leader of 
 the Occonies, who aimed to be made a chief of 
 the nation at large. The Estatoee warrior, Tox- 
 away, was successful ; and as the influence of 
 Chatuga was considerable with his tribe, he la 
 bored successfully to engender in their bosoms a 
 bitter dislike of the Estatoees. This feeling was 
 made to exhibit itself on every possible occasion. 
 The Occonies had no word too foul by which to 
 describe the Estatoees. They likened them, in 
 familiar speech, to every thing which, in the Indian 
 imagination, is accounted low and contemptible. 
 In reference to war, they were reputed women, 
 in all other respects, they were compared to dogs 
 and vermin; and* with something of a Christian 
 taste and temper, they did not scruple, now and 
 then, to invoke the devil of their more barbarous 
 creed, for the eternal disquiet of their successful 
 neighbors, the Little Estatoees, and their great 
 chief, Toxaway. 
 
 " In this condition of things there could not be 
 much harmony ; and, accordingly, as if by mu 
 tual consent, there was but little intercourse be 
 tween the two people. When they met, it was 
 either to regard one another with a cold, repulsive 
 distance, or else, as enemies, actively to foment 
 12* 
 
138 JOCASSEE. 
 
 quarrel and engage in strife. But seldom, save 
 on national concerns, did the Estatoees cross the 
 Keowee to the side held by the Occonies ; and 
 the latter, more numerous, and therefore less re 
 luctant for strife than their rivals, were yet not often 
 found on the opposite bank of the same river. 
 Sometimes, however, small parties of hunters from 
 both tribes, rambling in one direction or another, 
 would pass into the enemy's territory ; but this 
 was not frequent, and when they met, quarrel and 
 bloodshed were sure to mark the adventure. 
 
 " But there was one young warrior of the Es 
 tatoees, who did not give much heed to this condi 
 tion of parties, and who, moved by an errant spi 
 rit, and wholly insensible to fear, would not hesi 
 tate, when the humor seized him, to cross the 
 river, making quite as free, when he did so, with 
 the hunting-grounds of the Occonies as they did 
 themselves. This sort of conduct did not please 
 the latter very greatly, but Nagoochie was always 
 so gentle, and at the same time so brave, that the 
 young warriors of Occony either liked or feared 
 him too much to throw themselves often in his 
 path, or labor, at any time, to arrest his pro 
 gress. 
 
 In one of these excursion, Nagoochie made 
 the acquaintance of Jocassee, one of the sweetest 
 
JOCASSEE. 139 
 
 of the dusky daughters of Occony. He was 
 rambling, with bow and quiver, in pursuit of game, 
 as was his custom, along that beautiful enclosure, 
 which the whites have named after her, the Jocas- 
 See valley. The circumstances under which they 
 met were all strange and exciting, and well calcu 
 lated to give her a power over the young hunter, 
 to which the pride of the Indian does not often 
 suffer him to submit. It was towards evening 
 when Nagoochie sprung a fine buck from a hollow 
 of the wood along side him, and just before you 
 reach the ridge of rocks which hem in and form 
 this beautiful valley. With the first glimpse of his 
 prey, flew the keen shaft of Nagoochie; but, 
 strange to say, though renowned as a hunter, not 
 less than as a warrior, the arrow failed entirely, 
 and flew wide of the victim. Off he bounded 
 headlong after the fortunate buck ; but though, 
 every now and then, getting him within range, 
 for the buck took the pursuit coolly, the hunter 
 still most unaccountably failed to strike him. 
 Shaft after shaft had fallen seemingly hurtless from 
 his sides ; and though, at frequent intervals, suf 
 fered to approach so nigh to the animal that he 
 could not but hope still for better fortune, to his 
 great surprise, the wary buck would dash off 
 when he least expected it, bounding away in some 
 
140 JOCASSEE. 
 
 new direction, with as much life and vigor as 
 ever. What to think of this, the hunter knew 
 not ; but such repeated disappointments at length 
 impressed it strongly upon his mind, that the ob 
 ject he pursued was neither more nor less than an 
 Occony wizard, seeking to entrap him; so, with 
 a due feeling of superstition, and a small touch of 
 sectional venom aroused into action within his 
 heart, Nagoochie, after the manner of his people, 
 promised a green bird the emblem of his tribe 
 in sacrifice to the tutelar divinity of Estato, if 
 he could only be permitted to overcome the potent 
 enchanter, who had thus dazzled his aim and blunt 
 ed his arrows. He had hardly uttered this vow, 
 when he beheld the insolent deer mincingly gra 
 zing upon a beautiful tuft of long grass in the val 
 ley, just below the ledge of rock upon which he 
 stood. Without more ado, he pressed forward to 
 bring him within fair range of his arrows, little 
 doubting, at the moment, that the Good Spirit 
 had heard his prayer, and had granted his desire. 
 But, in his hurry, leaping too hastily forward, 
 and with eyes fixed only upon his proposed victim, 
 his foot was caught by the smallest stump in the 
 world, and the very next moment found him pre 
 cipitated directly over the rock and into the val 
 ley, within a few paces of the deer, who made off 
 
JOCASSEE. 141 
 
 with the utmost composure, looking back, as he 
 did so, to the eyes of the wounded hunter, for all 
 the world as if he enjoyed the sport mightily. 
 Nagoochie, as he saw this, gravely concluded that 
 he had fallen a victim to the .wiles of the Occony 
 wizard, and looked confidently to see half a score 
 of Occonies upon him, taking him at a vantage. 
 Like a brave warrior, however, he did not des 
 pond, but determining to gather up his loins for 
 battle and the torture, he sought to rise and put 
 himself in a state of preparation. What, how 
 ever, was his horror, to find himself utterly unable 
 to move ; his leg had been broken in the fall, 
 and he was covered with bruises from head to foot. 
 " Nagoochie gave himself up for lost ; but he 
 had scarcely done so, when he heard a voice, 
 the sweetest, he thought, he had ever heard in his 
 life, singing a wild, pleasant song, such as the 
 Occonies love, which, ingeniously enough, sum 
 med up the sundry reasons why the mouth, and 
 not the eyes, had been endowed with the faculty 
 of eating. These reasons were many, but the last 
 is quite enough for us. According to the song, 
 had the eyes, and not the mouth, been employed 
 for this purpose, there would soon be a famine in 
 the land, for of all gluttons, the eyes are the great 
 est. Nagoochie groaned aloud, as he heard the 
 
142 JOCASSEE. 
 
 song, the latter portion of which completely in 
 dicated the cause of his present misfortune. It 
 was, indeed, the gluttony of the eyes which had 
 broken his leg. This sort of allegory the Indians 
 are fond of, and Jocassee knew all their legends. 
 Certainly, thought Nagoochie, though his leg 
 pained him wofully at the time, certainly I 
 never heard such sweet music, and such a voice. 
 The singer advanced as she sung, and almost 
 stumbled over him. 
 
 " ' Who are you ?' she asked timidly, neither 
 retreating nor advancing ; and, as the wounded 
 man looked into her face, he blessed the Occony 
 wizard, by whose management he deemed his leg 
 to have been broken. 
 
 " ' Look ?' was the reply of the young warrior, 
 throwing aside the bearskin which covered his 
 bosom, ' look, girl of Occony ! 'tis the totem 
 of a chief ;' and the green bird stamped upon his 
 left breast, as the badge of his tribe, showed him 
 a warrior of Estate, and something of an enemy. 
 But his eyes had no enmity, and then the broken 
 leg ! Jocassee was a gentle maiden, and her heart 
 melted with the condition of the warrior. She 
 made him a sweet promise, in very pretty lan 
 guage, and with the very same voice, the music of 
 which was so delicious ; and then, with the fleet- 
 
JOCASSEE, 
 
 143 
 
 ness of a young doe, she went off to bring him 
 succor. 
 
 III. 
 
 " Night, in the meanwhile, came on ; and the 
 long howl of the wolf, as he looked down from 
 the crag, and waited for the thick darkness in 
 which to descend the valley, came freezingly to 
 the ear of Nagoochie. * Surely,' he said to him 
 self, ' the girl of Occony will come back. She 
 has too sweet a voice not to keep her word. She 
 will certainly come back.' While he doubted, 
 he believed. Indeed, though still a very young 
 maiden, the eyes of Jocassee had in them a great 
 deal that was good for little beside, than to per 
 suade, and force conviction ; and the belief in 
 them was pretty extensive in the circle of her rus 
 tic acquaintance. All people love to believe in 
 fine eyes, and nothing more natural than for lovers 
 to swear by them. Nagoochie did not swear by 
 those of Jocassee, but he did most religiously be 
 lieve in them; and though the night gathered 
 fast, and the long howl of the wolf came close 
 from his crag, down into the valley, the young 
 
144 JOCASSEE. 
 
 hunter of the green bird did not despair of the 
 return of the maiden. 
 
 " She did return, and the warrior was insensible. 
 But the motion stirred him ; the lights gleamed 
 upon him from many torches ; he opened his eyes, 
 and when they rested upon Jocassee, they forgot 
 to close again. She had brought aid enough, for 
 her voice was powerful as well as musical ; and, 
 taking due care that the totem of the green bird 
 should be carefully concealed by the bearskin, 
 with which her own hands covered his bosom, she 
 had him lifted upon a litter, constructed of several 
 young saplings, which, interlaced with withes, 
 binding it closely together, and strewn thickly with 
 leaves, made a couch as soft as the wounded man 
 could desire. In a few hours, and the form of 
 Nagoochie rested beneath the roof of Attakulla, 
 the sire of Jocassee. She sat beside the young 
 hunter, and it was her hand that placed the pure 
 balm upon his lips, and poured into his wounds 
 and bruises the strong and efficacious balsam of 
 Indian pharmacy. 
 
 " Never was nurse more careful of her charge. 
 Day and night she watched by him, and few were 
 the hours which she then required for her own plea 
 sure or repose. Yet why was Jocassee so devo*- 
 ted to the stranger ? She never asked herself so 
 
JOCASSEE. 145 
 
 unnecessary a question ; but as she was never so 
 well satisfied, seemingly, as when near him, the 
 probability is she found pleasure in her tendance. 
 It was fortunate for him and for her, that her fa 
 ther was not rancorous towards the people of the 
 Green Bird, like the rest of the Occonies. It 
 might have fared hard with Nagoochie otherwise. 
 But Attakulla was a wise old man, and a good ; 
 and when they brought the wounded stranger to 
 his lodge, he freely yielded him shelter, and went 
 forth himself to Chinabee, the wise medicine of 
 the Occonies. The eyes of Nagoochie were turn 
 ed upon the old chief, and when he heard his 
 name, and began to consider where he was, he 
 was unwilling to task the hospitality of one who 
 might be disposed to regard him, when known, 
 in an unfavorable or hostile light. Throwing 
 aside, therefore, the habit of circumspection, which 
 usually distinguishes the Indian warrior, he unco 
 vered his bosom, and bade the old man look upon 
 the totem of his people, precisely as he had done 
 when his eye first met that of Jocassee. 
 
 " 'Thy name ? What do the people of the 
 Green Bird call the young hunter ?' asked At 
 takulla. 
 
 " They name Nagoochie among the braves of 
 
 VOL. n. 13 
 
146 JOCASSEE. 
 
 the Estate : they will call him a chief of the Che 
 rokee, like Toxaway,' was the proud reply. 
 
 " This reference was to a sore subject with the 
 Occonies, and perhaps it was quite as imprudent 
 as it certainly was in improper taste for him to 
 make it. But knowing where he was, excited by 
 fever, and having to say much in little but 
 an unfavorable opinion of Occony magnanimity, 
 he was more rash than reasonable. At that mo 
 ment, too, Jocassee had made her appearance, 
 and the spirit of the young warrior, desiring to 
 look big in her eyes, had prompted him to a fierce 
 speech not altogether necessary. He knew not 
 the generous nature of Attakulla ; and when the 
 old man took him by the hand, spoke well of the 
 Green Bird, and called him his ' son,' the pride of 
 Nagoochie was something humbled, while his 
 heart grew gentler than ever. His ' son !' that 
 was the pleasant part ; and as the thoughts grew 
 more and more active in his fevered brain, he 
 looked to Jocassee with such a passionate admi 
 ration that she sunk back with a happy smile from 
 the flame-glance which he set upon her. And day 
 after day she tended him, until the fever passed 
 off, and the broken limb was set and had reknit- 
 ted, and the bruises were all healed upon him. 
 Yet he lingered. He did not tl.uk Liaiself quite 
 
JOCASSEE. 147 
 
 well, and she always agreed with him in opinion. 
 Once and again did he set off, determined not to 
 return, but his limb pained him, and he felt the 
 fever come back, whenever he thought of Jocas- 
 see ; and so the evening found him again at the 
 lodge, while the fever-balm, carefully bruised in, 
 milk, was in as great demand as ever for the in 
 valid. But the spirit of the warrior at length 
 grew ashamed of these weaknesses ; and, with a 
 desperate effort, for which he gave himself no lit 
 tle credit, he completed his determination to depart 
 with the coming of the new moon. But even this 
 decision was only effected by compromise. Love 
 settled the affair with conscience, after his own fa 
 shion, and under his direction, following the dusky 
 maiden into the little grove that stood beside the 
 cottage, Nagoochie claimed her to fill the lodge 
 of a young warrior of the Green Bird. She 
 broke the wand which he presented her, and seiz 
 ing upon the torch which she carried, he buried it 
 in the bosom of a neighboring brook, and thus, 
 after their simple forest ceremonial, Jocassee be 
 came the betrothed of Nagoochie. 
 
148 JOCASSEK. 
 
 IV. 
 
 "But we must keep this secret to ourselves, for 
 as yet it remained unknown to Attakulla, and the 
 time could not come for its revealment until the 
 young warrior had gone home to his people. Jo- 
 cassee was not so sure that all parties would be so 
 ready as herself to sanction her proceeding. Of 
 her father's willingness, she had no question, for 
 she knew his good nature and good sense ; but 
 she had a brother of whom she had many fears 
 and misgivings. He was away, on a great hunt 
 of the young men, up at Charashilactay, or the 
 falls of the White Water, as we call it to this day 
 a beautiful cascade of nearly forty feet, the 
 water of which is of a milky complexion. How 
 she longed, yet how she dreaded, to see that bro 
 ther 7 He was a fierce, impetuous, sanguinary 
 youth, who, to these characteristics, added another 
 still more distasteful to Jocassee ; there was not 
 a man among all the Occonies who so hated the 
 people of the Green Bird as Cheochee. What 
 hopes, or rather what fears, were in the bosom of 
 that maiden ! 
 
 " But he came not. Day after day they look- 
 
JOCASSEE. 149 
 
 ed for his return, and yet lie came not ; but in his 
 place a runner, with a bearded stick, a stick cover 
 ed with slips of skin, torn from the body of a wolf. 
 The runner passed by the lodge of Attakulla, and 
 all its inmates were aroused by the intelligence he 
 brought. A wolf-hunt was commanded by Moi- 
 toy, the great war-chief or generalissimo of the 
 Cherokee nation, to take place, instnnter^ at Cha- 
 rashilactay, where an immense body of wolves had 
 herded together, and had become troublesome 
 neighbors. Old and young, who had either 
 taste for the adventure, or curiosity to behold it, 
 at once set off upon the summons; and Attakulla, 
 old as he was, and Nagoochie, whose own great 
 prowess in hunting had made it a passion, deter 
 mined readily upon the journey. Jocassee, too, 
 joined the company, for the maidens of Che 
 rokee were bold spirits, as well as beautiful, and 
 loved to ramble, particularly when, as in the pre 
 sent instance, they went in company with their 
 lovers. Lodge after lodge, as they pursued their 
 way, poured forth its inmates, who joined them in 
 their progress, until the company had swollen into 
 a goodly caravan, full of life, anxious for sporf, 
 and carrying, as is the fashion among the Indians, 
 provisions of smoked venison and parched grain, 
 in plenty, for many days. 
 J3* 
 
150 JOCASSEE. 
 
 " They came, at length, to the swelling hills, 
 the long narrow valleys of the Keochee, and its 
 tribute river of Toxaway, named afier that great 
 chief of the Little Estatoees, of whom we have 
 already heard something. At one and the same 
 moment, they beheld the white waters of Cha- 
 rashilactay, plunging over the precipice, and the 
 hundred lodges of the Cherokee hunters. There 
 they had gathered the warriors and their wo 
 men twenty different tribes of the same great 
 nation being represented on the ground ; each 
 tribe having its own cluster of cabins, and rising 
 up in the midst of each, the long pole on which 
 hung the peculiar emblem of the clan. It was 
 not long before Nagoochie marshalled himself 
 along with his brother Estatoees who had count 
 ed him lost under the beautiful green bird of 
 his tribe, which waved about in the wind, over the 
 heads of their small community. 
 
 " The number of warriors representing the Es- 
 tato in that great hunt was inconsiderable but 
 fourteen and the accession, therefore, of so 
 promising a brave as Nagoochie was no small 
 matter. They shouted with joy at his coming, 
 and danced gladly in the ring between the lodges 
 the young women, in proper taste, and with 
 
JOCASSEE. 151 
 
 due spirit, hailing, with a sweet song, the return 
 of so handsome a youth, and one yet unmarried. 
 
 " Over against the lodges of the Estatoees, lay 
 the more imposing encampment of the rival Occo- 
 nies, who turned out strongly, as it happened, on 
 this occasion. They were more numerous than 
 any other of the assembled tribes, as the hunt was 
 to take place on a portion of their own territory. 
 Conscious of their superiority, they had not, you 
 may be sure, forborne any of the thousand sneers 
 and sarcasms which they were never at a loss to 
 find when they spoke of the Green Bird warriors ; 
 and of all their clan, none was so bitter, so un 
 compromising, generally, in look, speech, and ac 
 tion, as Cheochee, the fierce brother of the beauti 
 ful Jocassee. Scorn was in his eye, and sarcasm 
 on his lips, when he heard the rejoicings made by 
 the Estatoees on the return of the long-lost hunter. 
 
 " * Now wherefore screams the painted bird to 
 day ? why makes he a loud cry in the ears of the 
 brown viper that can strike ?' he exclaimed con 
 temptuously yet fiercely. 
 
 " It was Jocassee that spoke in reply to her bro 
 ther, with the quickness of woman's feeling, which 
 they wrong greatly who hold it subservient to the 
 strength of woman's cunning. In her reply, 
 Cheochee saw the weakness of her heart. 
 
152 JOCASSEE. 
 
 " ' They scream for Nagoochie,' said the girl ; 
 t it is joy that the young hunter comes back that 
 makes the green bird to sing to-day.' 
 
 " ' Has Jocassee taken a tongue from the green 
 bird, that she screams in the ears of the brown 
 viper? What has the girl to do with the thought 
 of the warrior ? Let her go go, bring drink to 
 Cheochee.' 
 
 " Abashed and silent, she did as he commanded, 
 and brought meekly to the fierce brother, a gourd 
 filled with the brown beer which the Cherokccs 
 love. She had nothing further to say on the sub 
 ject of the Green Bird warrior, for whom she had 
 already so unwarily spoken. But her words had 
 not fallen unregarded upon the ears of Chcochee, 
 nor had the look of the fond heart which spoke 
 out in Lcr glance, passed unseen by the keen eye 
 of that jealous brother. He had long before this 
 heard of the great fame of Nagoochie as a 
 hunter, and in his ire he was bent to surpass him. 
 Envy had grown into hate, when he heard that 
 this great reputation was that of one of the ac 
 cursed Estatoees; and, not satisfied with the desire 
 to emulate, he also aimed to destroy. This feel 
 ing worked like so much gall in his bosom ; and 
 when his eyes looked upon the fine form of Na 
 goochie, and beheld its symmetry, grace, and 
 
JOCASSEE. 
 
 153 
 
 manhood, his desire grew into a furious passion 
 which made him sleepless. The old chief, Atta- 
 kulla, his father, told him all the story of Nagoo- 
 chie's accident how Jocassee had found him : 
 and how, in his own lodge, he had been nursed 
 and tended. The old man spoke approvingly of 
 Nagoochie ; and, the better to bring about a good 
 feeling for her lover, Jocassee humbled herself 
 greatly to her brother, anticipated his desires, 
 and studiously sought to serve him. But all this 
 failed to effect a favorable emotion in the breast 
 of the malignant young savage towards the young 
 hunter of the Green Bird. He said nothing, 
 however, of his feelings ; but they looked out arid 
 were alive to the sight in every feature, whenever 
 any reference, however small, was made to the 
 subject of his ire. The Indian feeling is subtlety, 
 and Cheochee was a warrior already named by 
 the old chiefs of Cherokee. 
 
 V. 
 
 " The next day came the commencement of the 
 great hunt, and the warriors were up betimes and 
 active. Stations were chosen, the keepers of 
 which, converging to a centre, were to hem in 
 
154 JOCASSEE* 
 
 the wild animal on whose tracks they were going, 
 The wolves were known to be in a hollow of the 
 hills near Charashilactay, which had but one 
 outlet ; and points of close approximation across 
 this outlet were the stations of honor; for, goad 
 ed by the hunters to this passage, and failing of 
 egress in any other, the wolf, it was well known, 
 would be then dangerous in the extreme. Well 
 calculated to provoke into greater activity the jea 
 lousies between the Occonies and the Green Birds, 
 was the assignment made by Moitoy, the chief, of 
 the more dangerous of these stations to these two 
 clans. They now stood alongside of one ano 
 ther, and the action of the two promised to be 
 joint and corrcsponsive. Such an appointment, in 
 the close encounter with the wolf, necessarily pro 
 mised to bring the two parties into immediate con 
 tact ; and such was the event. As the day ad 
 vanced, and the hunters, contracting their circles, 
 brought the different bands of wolves into one, 
 and pressed upon them to the more obvious and 
 indeed the only outlet, the badges of the Green 
 Bird and trie Brown Viper the one consisting 
 of the stuffed skin and plumage of the Carolina 
 parrot, and the other the attenuated viper, filled 
 out with moss, and winding, with erect head, 
 around the pole, to the top of which it was stuck 
 
JOCASSEE. 355 
 
 were at one moment, in the indiscriminate hunt, 
 almost mingled over the heads of the two parties. 
 Such a sight was pleasant to neither, and would, 
 at another time, of a certainty, have brought 
 about a squabble. As it was, the Occonies drove 
 their badge-carrier from one to the other end of 
 their ranks, thus studiously avoiding the chance 
 of another collision between the viper so adored, 
 and the green bird so detested. The pride of the 
 Estatoees was exceedingly aroused at this exhibi 
 tion of impertinence, and though a quiet people 
 enough, they began to think that forbearance had 
 been misplaced in their relations with their pre 
 suming and hostile neighbors. Had it not been 
 for Nagoochie, who had his own reasons for suf 
 fering yet more, the Green Birds would certainly 
 have plucked out the eyes of the Brown Vipers, 
 or tried very hard to do it ; but the exhortations 
 to peace of the young warrior, and the near 
 neighborhood of the wolf, quelled any open show 
 of the violence they meditated ; but, Indian-like, 
 they determined to wait for the moment of greatest 
 quiet, as that most fitted for taking away a few 
 scalps from the Occony. With a muttered curse, 
 and a contemptuous slap of the hand upon their 
 thighs, the more furious among the Estatoees sa 
 tisfied their present anger, and then addressed 
 
156 JOCASSEE. 
 
 themselves more directly to the business before 
 them. 
 
 " The wolves, goaded to desperation by the 
 sound of hunters strewn all over the hills around 
 them, were now, snapping and snarling, and with 
 eyes that flashed with a terrible anger, descending 
 the narrow gully towards the outlet held by the 
 two rival tribes. A united action was therefore 
 demanded of those who, for a long time past, had 
 been conscious of no feeling or movement in com 
 mon. But here they had no choice no time, 
 indeed, to think. The fierce wolves were upon 
 them, doubly furious at finding the only passage 
 stuck full of enemies. Well and manfully did 
 the hunters stand and seek the encounter with the 
 infuriated beasts. The knife and the hatchet, that 
 day, in the hand of Occony and Estato, did fear 
 ful 'execution. The Brown Vipers fought nobly, 
 and with their ancient reputation. But the Green 
 Birds were the hunters, after all ; and they were 
 now stimulated into double adventure and effort, 
 by an honorable ambition to make up for all de 
 ficiencies of number by extra valor, and the care 
 ful exercise of all that skill in the arts of hunting 
 for which they have always been the most re 
 nowned of the tribes of Cherokee. As, one by 
 one, a fearful train, the wolves wound into sight 
 
JOCASSEE. 157 
 
 along this or that crag of the gully, arrow after 
 arrow told fearfully upon them, for there were no 
 marksmen like the Estatoees. Nor did they stop 
 at this weapon. The young Nagooehie, more 
 than ever prompted to such enterprise, led the 
 way ; and dashing into the very path of the teeth- 
 gnashing and claw-rending enemy, he grappled 
 in desperate fight the first that offered himself, 
 and as the wide jaws of his hairy foe opened upon 
 him, with a fearful plunge at his side, adroitly 
 leaping to the right, he thrust a pointed stick 
 down, deep, as far as he could send it, into the 
 monster's throat, then pressing back upon him, 
 with the rapidity of an arrow, in spite of all his 
 fearful writhings he pinned him to the ground, 
 while his knife, in a moment after, played fatally 
 in his heart. Another came, and in a second, his 
 hatchet cleft and crunched deep into the skull of 
 the hairy brute, leaving him senseless, without 
 need of a second stroke. There was no rivalling 
 deeds of valour so desperate as this 5 and with in 
 creased bitterness of soul did Cheochee and his 
 followers hate in proportion as they admired. 
 They saw the day close, and heard the signal 
 calling them to the presence of the great chief 
 Moitoy, conscious, though superior in numbers, 
 they could not at all compare in skill and success 
 
 VOL. II. 14 
 
158 JOCASSEE. 
 
 with the long-despised, but now thoroughly-hated 
 Estatoees. 
 
 " And still more great the vexation, still more 
 deadly the hate, when the prize was bestowed by 
 the hand of Moitoy, the great military chief of 
 Cherokee when, calling around him the tribes, 
 and carefully counting the number of their several 
 spoils, consisting of the skins of the wolves that 
 had been slain, it was found that of these the 
 greater number, in proportion to their force, had 
 fallen victims to the superior skill or superior dar 
 ing of the people of the Green Bird. And who 
 had been their leader ? the rambling Nagoochie 
 the young hunter who had broken his leg 
 among the crags of Occony, and, in the same 
 adventure, no longer considered luckless, had won 
 the young heart of the beautiful Jocassee. 
 
 " They bore the young and successful warrior 
 into the centre of the ring, and before the great 
 Moitoy. He stood up in the presence of the as 
 sembled multitude, a brave and fearless, and fine 
 looking Cherokee. At the signal of the chief, 
 the young maidens gathered into a group, and 
 sung around him a song of compliment and ap 
 proval, which was just as much as to say, < Ask, 
 and you shall have.' He did ask ; and before 
 the people of the Brown Viper could so far re- 
 
JOCASSEE. 159 
 
 cover from their surprise as to interfere, or well 
 comprehend the transaction, the bold Nagoochie 
 had led the then happy Jocassee into the presence 
 of Moitoy and the multitude, and had claimed the 
 girl of Occony to fill the green lodge of the Es- 
 tato hunter. 
 
 VI. 
 
 "That was the signal for uproar and commo 
 tion. The Occonies were desperately angered, 
 and the fierce Cheochee, whom nothing, not even 
 the presence of the great war-chief, could restrain, 
 rushed forward, and dragging the maiden violently 
 from the hold of Nagoochie, hurled her backward 
 into the ranks of his people ; then, breathing no 
 thing but blood and vengeance, he confronted 
 him with ready knife and uplifted hatchet, defying 
 the young hunter, in that moment, to the fight. 
 
 " ' E-cha-e-cha, e-kerro echa-herro-echa-herro, 9 
 was the warwhoop of the Occonies ; and it ga 
 thered them to a man around the sanguinary 
 young chief who uttered it. ' Echa-kerro, echa- 
 herro,' he continued, leaping wildly in air with the 
 paroxysm of rage which had seized him, 'the 
 brown viper has a tooth for the green bird. The 
 
160 JOG AS SEE. 
 
 Occony is athirst he would drink blood from 
 the dog-heart of the Estato. E-cha-e-cha-herro, 
 Occony. 9 And again he concluded his fierce 
 speech with that thrilling roll of sound, which, as 
 the so much dreaded warwhoop, brought a death 
 feeling to the heart of the early pioneer, and made 
 the mother clasp closely, in the deep hours of the 
 night, the young and unconscious infant to her 
 bosom. But it had no such influence upon the 
 fearless spirit of Nagoochie. The Estato heard 
 him with cool composure, and though evidently 
 unafraid, it was yet equally evident that he was 
 unwilling to meet the challenger in strife. Noi* 
 was his decision called for on the subject. The 
 great chief interposed, and all chance of conflict 
 was prevented by his intervention. In that pre 
 sence they were compelled to keep the peace, 
 though both the Occonies and Little Estatoees 
 retired to their several lodges with fever in their 
 veins, and a restless desire for that collision which 
 Moitoy had denied them. All but Nagoochie 
 were vexed at this denial ; and all of them won 
 dered much that a warrior, so brave and daring 
 as he had always shown himself, should be so 
 backward on such an occasion. It was true, they 
 knew of his love for the girl of Occony ; but 
 
JOCASSEE. 161 
 
 they never dreamed of such a feeling acquiring 
 an influence over the hunter, of so paralyzing and 
 unmanly a character. Even Nagoochie himself, 
 as he listened to some of the speeches uttered 
 around him, and reflected upon the insolence of 
 Cheochee even he began to wish that the affair 
 might go over again, that he might take the hiss 
 ing viper by the neck. And poor Jocassee 
 what of her when they took her back to the 
 lodges ? She did nothing but dream all night of 
 Brown Vipers and Green Birds in the thick of 
 battle. 
 
 VII. 
 
 " The next day came the movement of the 
 hunters, still under the conduct of Moitoy, from 
 the one to the other side of the upper branch of 
 the Keowee river, now called the Jocassee, but 
 which, at that time, went by the name of Sarratay. 
 The various bands prepared to move with the day 
 light ; and still near, and still in sight of one an 
 other, the Occonies and Estatoees took up their 
 line of march with the rest. The long poles of 
 the two, bearing the green bird of the one, and 
 the brown viper of the other, in the hands of their 
 14* 
 
162 JOCASSEE. 
 
 respective bearers stout warriors chosen for this 
 purpose with reference to strength and valor 
 waved in parallel courses, though the space be 
 tween them was made as great as possible by the 
 common policy of both parties. Following the 
 route of the caravan, which had been formed of 
 the ancient men, the women and children, to whom 
 had been entrusted the skins taken in the hunt, 
 the provisions, utensils for cooking, &c. the great 
 body of hunters were soon in motion for other and 
 better hunting-grounds, several miles distant, be 
 yond the river. 
 
 " The Indian warriors have their own mode of 
 doing business, and do not often travel with the 
 stiff precision which marks European civilization. 
 Though having*all one point of destination, each 
 hunter took his own route to gain it, and in this 
 manner asserted his independence. This had 
 been the education of the Indian boy, and this 
 self-reliance is one source of that spirit and cha 
 racter which will not suffer him to feel surprise in 
 any situation. Their way, generally, wound 
 along a pleasant valley, unbroken for several 
 miles, until you came to Big-knob, a huge crag 
 which completely divides it, rising formidably up 
 in the midst, and narrowing the valley on either 
 hand to a fissure, necessarily compelling a closer 
 
JOCASSEE. 163 
 
 march for all parties than had heretofore been 
 pursued. Straggling about as they had been, of 
 course but little order was perceptible when they 
 came together, in little groups, where the moun 
 tain forced their junction. One of the Bear tribe 
 found himself along side a handful of the Foxes, 
 and a chief of the Alligators plunged promiscu 
 ously into the centre of a cluster of the Turkey 
 tribe, whose own chief was probably doing the 
 proper courtesies among the Alligators. These 
 little crossings, however, were amusing rather than 
 annoying, and were, generally, productive of little 
 inconvenience, and no strife. But it so happen 
 ed, there was one exception to the accustomed 
 harmony. The Occonies and Estatoees, like the 
 rest, had broken up in small parties, and as might 
 have been foreseen, when they came individually 
 to where the crag divided the valley into two, 
 some took the one and some the other hand, and 
 it was not until one of the paths they had taken 
 opened into a little plain in which the woods were 
 bald a sort of prairie that a party of seven. 
 Occonies discovered that they had among them 
 two of their detested rivals, the Little Estatoees. 
 What made the matter worse, one of these strag 
 glers was the ill-fated warrior who had been 
 chosen to carry the badge of his tribe ; and there, 
 
164 JOCASSEE. 
 
 high above their heads the heads of the Brown 
 Vipers floated that detestable symbol, the green 
 bird itself. 
 
 " There was no standing that. The Brown 
 Vipers, as if with a common instinct, were imme 
 diately up in arms. They grappled the offending 
 stragglers without gloves. They tore the green 
 bird from the pole, stamped it under foot, smear 
 ed it in the mud, and pulling out the cone-tuft of 
 its head, utterly degraded it in their own as well 
 as in the estimation of the Estatoees. Not con 
 tent with this, they hung the desecrated emblem 
 about the neck of the bearer of it, and, spite of 
 all their struggles, binding the arms of the two 
 stragglers behind their backs, the relentless Vipers 
 thrust the long pole which had borne the bird, in 
 such a manner between their alternate arms as 
 effectually to bind them together. In this man 
 ner, amidst taunts, blows, and revilings, they were 
 left in the valley to get on as they might, while 
 their enemies, insolent enough with exultation, 
 proceeded to join the rest of their party. 
 
JOCASSEE. 165 
 
 VIII. 
 
 " An hundred canoes were ready on the banks 
 of the river Sarratay, for the conveyance to the 
 opposite shore of the assembled Cherokees. And 
 down they came, warrior after warrior, tribe after 
 tribe, emblem after emblem, descending from the 
 crags around in various order, and hurrying all 
 with shouts and whoops and songs, grotesquely 
 leaping to the river's bank, like so many boys 
 just let out of school. Hilarity is, indeed, the life 
 of nature ! Civilization refines the one at the ex 
 pense of the other, and then it is that no human 
 luxury or sport, as known in society, stimulates 
 appetite for any length of time. We can only 
 laugh in the woods society suffers but a smile, 
 and desperate sanctity, with the countenance of a 
 crow, frowns even at that. 
 
 " But down, around, and gathering from every 
 side, they came the tens and the twenties of the 
 several tribes of Cherokee. Grouped along the 
 banks of the river, were the boats assigned to 
 each. Some, already filled, were sporting in 
 every direction over the clear bosom of that beau 
 tiful water. Moitoy himself, at the head of the 
 
166 JOCASSEE. 
 
 tribe of Nequassee, from which he came, had al 
 ready embarked ; while the venerable Attakulla, 
 with Jocassee, the gentle, sat upon a little bauk 
 in the neighborhood of the Occony boats, await 
 ing the arrival of Cheochee and his party. And 
 why came they not f One after another of the 
 several tribes had filled their boats, and were either 
 on the river or across it. But two clusters of 
 canoes yet remained, and they were those of the 
 rival tribes a green bird flaunted over the one, 
 and a brown viper, in many folds, was twined 
 about the pole of the other. 
 
 " There was sufficient reason why they came 
 not. The strife had begun ; for, when gather 
 ing his thirteen warriors in a little hollow at the 
 termination of the valley through which they came, 
 Nagoochie beheld the slow and painful approach 
 of the two stragglers upon whom the Occonies 
 had so practised. When he saw the green bird 
 the beautiful emblem of his tribe disfigured 
 and defiled, there was no longer any measure or 
 method in his madness. There was no longer a 
 thought of Jocassee to keep him back ; and the 
 feeling of ferocious indignation which filled his 
 bosom was the common feeling with his brother 
 warriors. They lay in wait for the coming of the 
 Occonies ? down at the foot of the Yellow Hill, 
 
JOCASSEE. 167 
 
 where the woods gathered green and thick. They 
 were few but half in number of their enemies 
 but they were strong in ardor, strong in justice, 
 and even death was preferable to a longer en 
 durance of that dishonor to which they had al 
 ready been too long subjected. They beheld the 
 approach of the Brown Vipers, as, one by one, 
 they wound out from the gap of the mountain, 
 with a fierce satisfaction. The two parties were 
 now in sight of each other, and could not mistake 
 the terms of their encounter. No word was spoken 
 between them, but each began the scalp-song of 
 his tribe, preparing at the same time his weapon, 
 and advancing to the struggle. 
 
 " f The green bird has a bill,' sang the Esta- 
 toees ; e and he flies like an arrow to his prey.' 
 
 "'The brown viper has poison and a fang,' 
 responded the Occonies ; ' and he lies under the 
 net for his enemy.' 
 
 " c Give me to clutch the war-tuft,' cried the 
 leaders of each party, almost in the same breath. 
 
 " ' To taste the blood,' cr^ied another. 
 
 " ' And make my knife laugh in the heart that 
 shrinks,' sung another and another. 
 
 " ' I will put my foot on the heart,' cried an 
 Occony. 
 
 " l l tear away the scalp,' shouted an Estato, in 
 
168 JOCASSEE. 
 
 reply ; while a joint chorus from the two parties, 
 promised 
 
 " ' A dog that runs, to the black spirit that 
 sleeps in the swamp.' 
 
 " ' Echa-herrO) echa-herro, echa-herroS was the 
 grand cry, or fearful warwhoop, which announ 
 ced the moment of onset and the beginning of the 
 strife. 
 
 IX. 
 
 " The Occonies were not backward, though the 
 affair was commenced by the Estatoees. Cheo- 
 chee, their leader, was quite as brave as malig 
 nant, and now exulted in the near prospect of that 
 sweet revenge for all the supposed wrongs and 
 more certain rivalries which his tribe had suffered 
 from the Green Birds. Nor was this more the 
 feeling with him than with his tribe. Disposing 
 themselves, therefore, in readiness to receive the 
 assault, they rejoiced in the coming of a strife, in 
 which, having many injuries to redress, they had 
 the advantages, at the same time, of position and 
 number. 
 
 " But their fighting at disadvantage was not 
 now a thought with the Little Estatoees. Their 
 
JOCASSEE, 
 
 169 
 
 blood was up, and like all usually patient people, 
 once aroused, they were not so readily quieted. 
 Nagoochie, the warrior now, and no longer the 
 lover, led on the attack. You should have seen 
 how that brave young chief went into battle 
 how he leapt up in air, slapped his hands upon 
 his thighs in token of contempt for his foe, and 
 throwing himself open before his enemies, dashed 
 down his bow and arrows, and waving his hatchet, 
 signified to them his desire for the conflict, Vou- 
 trance, and, what would certainly make it so, hand 
 to hand. The Occonies took him at his word, 
 and throwing aside the long bow, they bounded 
 out from their cover to meet their adversaries. 
 Then should you have seen that meeting that 
 first rush how they threw the tomahawk how 
 they flourished the knife how the brave man 
 rushed to the fierce embrace of his strong enemy 
 and how the two rolled along the hill in the 
 teeth-binding struggle of death. 
 
 "The tomahawk of Nagoochie had wings and 
 a tooth. It flew and bit in every direction. One 
 after another, the Occonies went down before it, 
 and still his fierce war cry of l Echa-mal- OcconyJ 
 preceding every stroke, announced another and 
 another victim. They sank away from him like 
 sheep before the wolf that is hungry, and the dis- 
 
 VOL. ii. 15 
 
170 JOCASSEE. 
 
 parity of force was not so great in favor of the 
 Occonies, when we recollect that Nagoochie was 
 against them. They were now, under his fierce 
 valor, almost equal in number, and something 
 more was necessary to be done by the Occonies 
 before they could hope for that favorable result 
 from the struggle which they had before looked 
 upon as certain. It was for Cheochee now to 
 seek out and to encounter the gallant young chief 
 of Estato. Nagoochie. hitherto, for reasons best 
 known to himself, had studiously avoided the 
 leader of the Vipers ; but he could no longer do 
 so. He was contending, in close strife, with Oko- 
 nettee, or the One Eyed a stout warrior of the 
 Vipers as Cheochee approached him. In the 
 next moment, the hatchet of Nagoochie entered 
 the skull of Okonettee. The One-Eyed sunk to 
 the ground, as if in supplication, and, seizing the 
 legs of his conqueror, in spite of the repeated 
 blows which descended from the deadly instru 
 ment, each of which was a death, while his head 
 swam, and the blood filled his eyes, and his senses 
 were fast fleeting, he held on with a death-grasp 
 which nothing could compel him to forego. In 
 this predicament, Cheochee confronted the young 
 brave of Estato. The strife was short, for though 
 Nagoochie fought as bravely as ever, yet he 
 
JOCASSEE. 171 
 
 struck in vain, while the dying wretch, grappling 
 his legs, disordered, even by his convulsions, not 
 less than by his efforts, every blow which the strong 
 hand of Nagoochie sought to give. One arm was 
 already disabled, and still the dying wretch held 
 on to his legs. In another moment, the One-Eyed 
 was seized by the last spasms of death, and in his 
 struggles, he dragged the Estato chief to his 
 knees. This was the fatal disadvantage. Before 
 any of the Green Bird warriors could come to his 
 succor, the blow was given, and Nagoochie lay 
 under the knee of the Brown Viper. The knife 
 was in his heart, and the life not yet gone, when 
 the same instrument encircled his head, and his 
 swimming vision could behold his own scalp wav 
 ing in the grasp of his conqueror. The gallant 
 spirit of Nagoochie passed away in a vain effort 
 to utter his song of death the song of a brave 
 warrior conscious of many victories. 
 
 X. 
 
 " Jocassee looked up to the hills when she heard 
 the fierce cry of the descending Vipers. Their 
 joy was madness, for they had fought with they 
 had slain, the bravest of their enemies. The in- 
 
172 JOCASSEE. 
 
 toxication of tone which Cheochee exhibited, when 
 he told the story of the strife, and announced his 
 victory, went like a death-stroke to the heart of 
 the maiden. But she said not a word she ut 
 tered no complaint she shed no tear but, 
 gliding quietly into the boat in which they were 
 about to cross the river, she sat silent, gazing, with 
 the fixedness of a marble statue, upon the still 
 dripping scalp of her lover, as it dangled about 
 the neck of his conqueror. On a sudden, just as 
 they had reached the middle of the stream, she 
 started, and her gaze was turned once more back 
 ward upon the banks they had left, as if, on a sud 
 den, some object of interest had met her sight, 
 then, whether by accident or design, with look still 
 intent in the same direction, she fell over the side, 
 before they could save or prevent her, and was 
 buried in the deep waters of Sarratay for ever. 
 She rose not once to the surface. The stream, 
 from that moment, lost the name of Sarratay, and 
 both whites and Indians, to this day, know it only 
 as the river of Jocassee. The girls of Cherokee, 
 however, contend that she did not sink, but walk 
 ing * the waters like a thing of life,' that she re 
 joined Nagoochie, whom she saw beckoning to 
 her from the shore. Nor is this the only tradition. 
 
JOCASSEE, 
 
 173 
 
 The story goes on to describe a beautiful lodge, 
 one of the most select in the valley of Manneyto, 
 the hunter of which is Nagoochie of the Green 
 Bird, while the maiden who dresses his venison is 
 certainly known as Jocassee," 
 
 
 15* 
 
THE CHEROKEE EMBASSAGE. 
 
 " Where go these messengers 
 
 These untamed lords of the forest, whither speed 
 Their barks o'er unknown waters to survey 
 What land of blue delight, what better shore, 
 More grateful to the hunter than the last V 
 

THE 
 
 CHEROKEE EMBASSAGE. 
 
 IT was deemed prudent, soon after the close of 
 a trying war with the savages, to conciliate the 
 Cherokee nation, then one of the largest in the 
 colony ; and Sir Alexander Gumming, himself 
 an ostentatious person, was fitly chosen for this 
 purpose. Charged with proposals of alliance, 
 and amply provided with gifts, more imposing 
 than valuable, to the several leading chiefs and 
 sages, this gentleman, in the beginning of the 
 year 1730, set forth for the Apalachian moun 
 tains, in the neighborhood of which the principal 
 towns of the Cherokees were situated. He was 
 attended on this occasion, as well by several 
 voluntary travellers, as by a numerous military 
 retinue; and no circumstance was omitted, of dis 
 play or pomp, which could impress upon the abo- 
 
178 THE CHEROKEE EMBASSAGE. 
 
 rigines an idea of the vast power of that foreign 
 potentate, whose representative was then to appear 
 before them. Every expense called for by the de 
 putation was cheerfully conceded on the part of 
 the royal government, as the king well knew the 
 great military strength of the people, whom it was 
 the object to conciliate. The Cherokees inhabiting 
 South Carolina at this time, were as numerous as 
 they were brave. The inhabitants of thirty-seven 
 regular towns, were computed to amount to twenty 
 thousand. Of these, six thousand were bowmen, 
 ready, on any emergency, to take the field. In 
 addition to this force, which may be considered 
 the regular force of the nation, the roving tribes 
 were supposed to reach several thousand more ; 
 not so easy to be brought together, but, if possi 
 ble, far more dangerous to an enemy when once 
 collected, as, from their continual habit of wan 
 dering, they grew even fiercer than the wild beasts, 
 in whose pursuit only they seemed to live. 
 
 It was some time before Sir Alexander reached 
 Keowee, a distance of three hundred miles or more 
 from Charleston. His way, for the most part, 
 lay through a wilderness, seldom, if ever before, 
 trodden by European footsteps. It was a dreary 
 pilgrimage, and it was no small satisfaction to the 
 English, when, as they attained the outskirts of the 
 
THE CHEROKEE EMBASSAGE. 179 
 
 Cherokee territory, the chiefs of the lower town, 
 hearing of their approach, came forth to receive 
 and to guide them still farther on their way. Ee- 
 Jistoe^ the chief of the Green Birds or Little Esta- 
 toees, Chulochkolla, the sachem of the Occonies, 
 and Moitoy, the Black Warrior of Telliquo, the 
 most renowned of all their braves, thus joined the 
 jaded cavalcade. 
 
 Sir Alexander Gumming hailed them with a 
 flourish ; and, having disposed of his retinue, be 
 fore their approach, in such a manner as to show 
 them to the best possible advantage, he was pleased 
 to think that he had made a favorable impression. 
 He was not deceived. The wondering savages 
 themselves ostentatiously decorated, according 
 to their sylvan fashion, in all the rich plumage of 
 their native birds, contrasted strangely with the 
 hideous paint, and rugged skins, which formed so 
 large a part of their ceremonial equipment were 
 nevertheless overcome by the more imposing splen 
 dors of the deputation. The glittering armor 
 the gorgeous^uniform of the English, shining in 
 gold and scarlet the lofty plumes the plunging 
 and richly caparisoned horses together with the 
 thrilling military music of an English band all 
 combined to overpower their imaginations, and to 
 impress the deeply excited senses of the Chero- 
 
180 THE CHEROKEE EMBASSAGE. 
 
 kees; and though, like the Roman Fabricius, they 
 were not to be surprised, and suffered neither awe 
 nor irreverent curiosity to appear upon their faces, 
 or in their gesticulation, they were all nevertheless 
 strongly wrought upon by both these emotions. 
 
 Sir Alexander lost no time in securing the friend 
 ship of the chiefs, as they severally came forth to 
 meet him. He received them in great state, and 
 to each gave some particular present, so carefully 
 chosen as to avoid all chance of showing a prefer 
 ence to any one, thus giving offence to the rest. 
 This caution had its due results. The chiefs were 
 all well satisfied, and Moitoy, the Black Warrior 
 of Telliquo not to be outdone in these respects, 
 brought from Tenassee, the principal town of the 
 nation, the crown of the Great Keowee, the old 
 chief and reigning sovereign a monarch too po 
 tent, according to his own and his people's estima 
 tion, to be even looked upon by strangers. The 
 policy of the suspicious savage had much to do 
 with this strange seclusion. His person, like that 
 of Montezuma, was considered ^cred, and a 
 proper watch was maintained over it according^. 
 Thus, though able to have annihilated the entire 
 force under Gumming in a single effort, it was yet 
 thought advisable to risk nothing, by the exposure 
 of a commodity so susceptible to injury as a reign- 
 
THE CHEROKEE EMBASSAGE. 
 
 381 
 
 ing sovereign ; and with the first annunciation, 
 therefore, of the approach of the English, Keowee, 
 a decrepid and almost blind old man, was hurried 
 bodily away from the contiguous country, more 
 deeply than before into the thick forests, and among 
 the impassable barriers of rock, which girdled in 
 and covered their extended territory. To M oitoy, 
 and the other chiefs or kings, was entrusted the 
 task of receiving and providing for the strangers ; 
 and, to do them all justice, the reception was such 
 as became a brave and honorable people. The 
 fruits and flesh, the maize and provisions, to which 
 they were themselves accustomed, were all freely 
 provided ; and five eagle tails, and four scalps 
 from slaughtered enemies, were also among the 
 presents brought by Moitoy. These had a signi 
 fication which, through the interpreter, the dusky 
 warriors explained to the satisfaction of their Eu 
 ropean visiters. The feathers of the eagle marked 
 the strength and the glory alike of Cherokee, and 
 the scalp of their enemies announced the unerring 
 certainty of Cherokee victory and vengeance. 
 These were presented to the English, in token that 
 henceforward their course should be trodden on 
 the same war path, in close affinity, and against 
 the same enemies. 
 
 VOL. n. 16 
 
182 THE CHEROKEE EMBASSAGE. 
 
 Thirty-two chiefs, each paramount with his own 
 tribe and section, appeared at the solemn council 
 which followed. A great deal of pompous talk 
 was uttered, and Moitoy of Telliquo, the Black 
 Warrior, found such high favor with Sir Alexan 
 der, that he nominated him as the commander-in- 
 chief of the Cherokee armies, and presented him 
 with a rich robe as a badge of his new office. The 
 chiefs present agreed to recognise him as such, 
 provided that there should be a like accountability 
 to him, (Sir Alexander,) on the part of Moitoy. 
 Every thing went on amicably, and, emboldened 
 by the friendly disposition which the savages 
 evinced, the English ambassador proposed that 
 some of them should accompany him to England, 
 in order, with their own eyes, to behold that great 
 king, of whom he had given them a most flaming 
 description. 
 
 " Your brother, King George," said he, in a 
 speech which was well remembered by the atten 
 tive chiefs, " will be glad to see you. He will 
 load you with presents, with hatchets and knives, 
 with rich clothes, and beautiful feathers. He will 
 bind you to his heart with a bright gold chain, 
 which will last unbroken for a thousand years." 
 
 " He is our brother," replied the chiefs with one 
 
 
THE CHEROKEE EMBASSAGE. 183 
 
 voice, dazzled by the glorious promise " he is 
 our brother we will go to our brother George." 
 
 There was no difficulty in getting the proposed 
 deputation ; the only difficulty, indeed, was in 
 making a selection from the number of those offer 
 ing. Unconscious of the length of the voyage, of 
 its dangers, and the new and unaccustomed scenes 
 and circumstances through which they would have 
 to go before realizing the prospects set before them, 
 the simple savages, each a king in his own coun 
 try, were readily persuaded to undertake the em- 
 bassage which promised them so much enjoyment. 
 The gold and the glitter the fine armor like that 
 which Sir Alexander wore the pomp and the 
 display, which, through the interpreter, the En 
 glishman dwelt upon in the most glowing language 
 were irresistible ; and, full of the splendors of 
 their brother George, they threw the bear skins 
 about their shoulders, filled their quivers with fresh 
 arrows from the canebrake, and kissing the sunny 
 side, one after the other, of the broad tree that 
 covered them during the progress of the council, 
 they bade their farewell to the green forests, and 
 the wild free country, their eyes might never again 
 behold. 
 
 Six of them accompanied Sir Alexander to 
 Charleston, and thence, having been there joined 
 
184 THE CHEROKEE EMBASSAGE. 
 
 by another chief who followed them after a brief 
 delay, they embarked with him for Europe. The 
 eldest of these chiefs, or kings, was Tonestoi, 
 prince of Nequassee, a once formidable, but now 
 decayed warrior, and a good old man. He was 
 renowned among the Cherokees for his wisdom. 
 The next in order was the famous orator, Skiaja- 
 gustha a man whose eloquence performed won 
 ders in the councils of his people, and of whose 
 speeches, some occur upon our own historical re 
 cords, not unworthy to appear in any collection. 
 Next came Chulockholla, another orator, neither 
 so old nor so well renowned as Skiajagustha. The 
 chief of the Occonies, or Brown Vipers, Cenestee, 
 was the fourth of this delegation a chief only 
 remarkable for the reckless audacity of his valor. 
 The fifth was a gallant young warrior of the Little 
 Estatoees, or Green Birds, Ee-fistoe a warrior 
 intelligent as valiant, and not any thing less amia 
 ble because of his acknowledged bravery. Occo- 
 nostota made the sixth. He was the king of Ech- 
 otee, and could himself bring three hundred war 
 riors into the field ; but he was something of a 
 tyrant, and was deposed the very year after his re 
 turn from Europe. The seventh, who joined the 
 deputation in Charleston, was a chief also, but 
 
THE CHEROKEE EMBASSAGE. 185 
 
 his name does not appear in our history. He was 
 probably of no great renown. 
 
 These were the Cherokee kings, who, consent 
 ing to the invitation of Sir Alexander Gumming, 
 sailed with him in the Swallow Packet, for Lon 
 don, some time in the month of May, 1730. Se 
 duced by the glowing pictures spread before their 
 minds by the English agent, full of expectation, 
 and flushed with the promise of so many novelties, 
 the wild men of the woods, wrapped in their hun 
 ter garbs, gorgeously covered with fresh paint, 
 and armed to the teeth, after the fashion of their 
 people, fearlessly went on board the little vessel 
 that awaited them, and, with favoring breezes, 
 were soon lost to the sight of land, and plunging 
 steadily over the bosom of the Atlantic. 
 
 The sea a new element to the Cherokees 
 exacted its dues, and it was not many hours before 
 the warriors grew heartily sick of their unusual 
 undertaking. Much would they have given to be 
 once more in their native forests, but they were too 
 brave, and too well taught in the stoical morality 
 of the savage, to confess to any such weakness. 
 They had long before learned, that, to conquer, it 
 is first necessary that we should bear with, our fate, 
 and they withstood, accordingly, as well as they 
 
 could, the storms and the tossings of the waters, in 
 J6* 
 
186 THE CHEROKEE EMBASSAGE. 
 
 a manner by no means discrediting their creed or 
 nation. They grew, in a little time, familiar with 
 their new abiding place, and, as the initial sickness 
 passed away, soon began to contemplate, with 
 comparative steadiness and a growing apprecia 
 tion, all the various objects and aspects of their 
 new domain. 
 
 All was strange all was wonderful around 
 them. Their own complete isolation the ab 
 sence of the woods and wilds to which only they 
 had been accustomed their initiation into a world 
 so new and strange, as to them was that of ocean 
 the singular buoyancy of their ship the as 
 tonishing agility of the seamen, moving about with 
 ease and dexterity, where they could scarcely 
 maintain the most uncertain foot-hold these were 
 all matters of profound astonishment and curiosity. 
 But these were all as nothing, after the first blush 
 of novelty had passed away, in comparison with 
 the queer tricks and uncouth antics of one of the 
 ship's company. This was no less than a monkey, 
 belonging to one of the sailors, named Jacko a 
 creature of habitual trick and mimicry, continually 
 provoked to its exercise by some one or other of 
 the seamen. He ran along the ropes and rigging 
 in pursuit of them. He mounted the spars, and 
 sat in uncouth shapes in the most dangerous 
 
THE CHEROKEE EMBASSAGE. 187 
 
 places. He carried off the caps of the sailors, then 
 pelted them down upon those who walked the deck. 
 In short, nothing in the semblance of mischief was 
 omitted by Jacko. Tonestoi, the venerable elder 
 of the Indian chiefs, was absolutely ravished by 
 the tricks of the sportive monkey. He had no 
 thought for any other object than Jacko. He 
 watched his movements by the hour, provoked 
 their exercise by continual stimulating affronts, and 
 laughed, in despite of the grave looks of his bro 
 ther chiefs, as immoderately as if such had been 
 his continual practice. Tonestoi was an ancient 
 chief, renowned as much for wisdom as for valor, 
 and he presumed upon his reputation. He there 
 fore gave vent to his merriment without any fear of 
 losing either his own or the general respect of his 
 people. The other chiefs, who -were all younger, 
 were either differently situated in rank, or were not 
 altogether so secure in the estimation of their peo 
 ple ; and, though equally delighted with Tonestoi, 
 were yet prudent enough to preserve a greater de 
 gree of gravity. They looked on with composure ; 
 and, while watching closely all the sports of Jacko, 
 they yet forebore to take any part in the merriment. 
 But the old chief had no such scruples, and his 
 laughter was without reserve. He played with 
 Jacko like a child rolled with him about the 
 
188 THE CHEROKEE EMBASSAGE. 
 
 decks hallooed him on to all manner of mischief 
 
 clapped his hands and cheered him in his per 
 formance, and then, in his own language, pro 
 nounced a high eulogy upon his achievements. 
 He called him " Hickisiwackinaw," or " the 
 warrior with a tail ;" and at length, when he saw 
 Jacko swing by his hind legs from a rope, and, 
 with his paws, grapple and take fast hold upon 
 the bushy poll of one of the sailors as he walked 
 beneath, he called him " Toostenugga," after the 
 celebrated leader of the Cherokee hobgoblins 
 
 this being one of the favorite modes by which 
 Toostenugga, suspending himself from a tree, laid 
 hold of, and punished, those who offended him, as 
 they walked beneath. Nothing could divert the 
 attention of Tonestoi from the monkey. Sir Al 
 exander Gumming, whose sense of dignity was 
 greatly outraged by such unbecoming levity, tried 
 his best to attract the mind of the Cherokee to 
 more dignified amusements ; and, in his vexation, 
 was with difficulty restrained from tumbling Jacko 
 overboard, hopeless of any other means of obtain 
 ing his object. He made a show of anger towards 
 the monkey, but, upon beholding the sudden gra 
 vity of Tonestoi as he comprehended this design, 
 he thought it only wise to forbear, as it was his 
 policy, as well as his orders, to avoid all manner 
 
THE CHEROKEE EMBASSAGE. 189 
 
 of offence. His dernier resort then was in his 
 liquors, and once made acquainted with their po 
 tency, the old chief, Tonestoi, was soon taught to 
 prefer the intoxicating cup to the antics of his more 
 innocent companion. Jacko, or, as he called him 
 to the last, Toostenugga, ceased to attract so much 
 of his attention, and, to the shame of all parties 
 be it said, the good old warrior, after this, had 
 scarcely a sober hour until they reached the haven 
 of their destination. 
 
 Their arrival in London was the signal for much 
 bustle and exhibition. Apart from the desire to 
 impose greatly on their senses by shows and splen 
 dors, to which, in their wild abodes, they had never 
 been accustomed, the better to acquire dominion 
 over them, they received a thousand attentions as 
 the last new lions in the metropolis. Lords and 
 ladies thronged the hotel at which the Cherokee 
 kings were lodged, and the beautiful squaws of 
 London, as was more recently the case in our own 
 country, submitted joyfully to the salute of the In 
 dian warriors for the sake of its novelty. Feasts 
 were given them in profusion frolics conceived 
 on purpose to make them actors ; and from the day 
 of their arrival to that of their departure, all was 
 uproar and exultation. In all these junkettings, it 
 need scarcely be said that our Cherokees preserved 
 
190 THE CHEROKEE EMBASSAGE. 
 
 happily their usual equanimity of character. They 
 were grave and composed, and behaved, for all 
 the world, as if they had been accustomed all their 
 lives to such honors and indulgences. Tonestoi, 
 alone, of all the deputation, gave way to the gar 
 rulous good humor of the aged man. He laughed 
 and joked freely with his visiters, and nothing gave 
 him such profound pleasure as when his great 
 cheek bones and painted lips came in contact with 
 the velvety skin of his lady visiters. Never had 
 Cherokee warrior so given way before to all the 
 practices, and so many of the evidences, of la Idle 
 passion. So much was this the case, that his more 
 youthful companions began to have doubts as to 
 the tenacity of that superior wisdom in the ancient 
 chief which had been a proverb in his own coun- 
 try. 
 
 But if the general acquaintance with the In 
 dians, and their usual deportment, prevailed with 
 and gave satisfaction to the English nobility, their 
 conduct in the interview with the king completed 
 the merriment, and furnished a fitting climax to 
 the whole proceeding. Seized somewhat with the 
 spirit of the fashion in reference to them, and de 
 sirous of securing, by a proper policy, the affec 
 tions of these people, the British monarch desired, 
 and determined to do them particular honor. An 
 
THE CHEROKEE EMBASSAGE. 191 
 
 especial drawing-room was appointed them, and, 
 in the presence of a most brilliant and imposing 
 assemblage, he prepared to receive his distin 
 guished visiters. Sir Alexander Gumming, who 
 had the chiefs in charge, attempted, before going 
 to court, to give them certain instructions as to 
 their behavior in the presence of majesty ; but 
 they either did not, or would not, understand him. 
 They comprehended sufficiently his object, how 
 ever, and the native pride of an aboriginal chief 
 rose in arms at his suggestion. Skiajagustha, the 
 orator, was the first to take fire at what seemed an 
 indignity. Wrapping his bear skin around him 
 with a majesty which George himself, in all his 
 career, and with the best teachers, never could 
 have emulated, he looked scornfully upon his 
 would-be tutor, while he replied : 
 
 " Skiajagustha is the great mouth of Cherokee 
 he has stood before his nation when Keowee, the 
 red arrow, was there. His words are good.'* 
 
 The interpreter explained ; but, as similar sen 
 timents were uttered by nearly all the party, Sir 
 Alexander saw that it would not only be idle, but 
 most probably offensive, were he to endeavor to 
 teach them farther. As they approached the chair 
 of state, in which sat the monarch, the aged To- 
 nestoi took the advance. The king rose as he 
 
192 THE CHEROKEE EMBASSAGE. 
 
 drew nigh, and came forward, extending his hand 
 for the usual salute, as he did so, to the approach 
 ing Indian. But Tonestoi, remembering his own 
 dignity, and what had been said to him on the 
 score of the relationship between them, prior to his 
 leaving his own country, to the great horror of the 
 courtiers, and of Sir Alexander Gumming in par 
 ticular, grasped the extended hand of the English 
 monarch with his own, and, giving it a squeeze 
 that none but a bear could well have equalled, 
 shook it heartily and long, exclaiming, in the few 
 words of courtesy which he had committed in bro 
 ken English, 
 
 " Huddye-do, Broder George huddye-do 
 glad to see you" and, continuing with a smile 
 as he looked round upon the women " You got 
 plenty squaws." 
 
 The court was convulsed and shocked beyond 
 measure. All were astounded except the king 
 himself, and the savages. George, with his usual 
 good nature, withdrawing his hand, though with 
 some difficulty, from the powerful gripe of his bro 
 ther monarch, smiled pleasantly, and, amused with 
 the familiarity, responded in similar style, giving 
 the cue to those around him. Nothing then could 
 exceed the hilarity with which the business of the 
 conference was carried on and finished. The 
 
THE CHEROKEE E MB ASS AGE. 193 
 
 kings made long speeches through the interpre 
 ters, satisfactory on all sides, and a treaty of alli 
 ance was then and there agreed upon between 
 them, to be valid and binding upon the Cherokees 
 and English in America, as they were avowed to 
 be so by both parties present then in England. 
 
 We quote portions of this treaty, as it not only 
 presents us with much of the eloquence employed 
 by the several contracting parties, but also gives 
 us some idea of the various topics of trade and com 
 munion, rendering such a treaty between people 
 so dissimilar essential to the mutual good. It will 
 be found, however, that the performance of duties 
 devolves much more frequently upon the Indian 
 than upon the white man, and that his rewards, 
 estimated by our standards of use and value, are 
 quite inadequate to the services required at their 
 hands. Doubtless, however, they were such as 
 were best calculated for the uninstructed savage. 
 
 The preamble to this treaty recites, 
 
 " That whereas the six chiefs, [without naming 
 them, and without any reference to the chief who 
 unquestionably joined the embassy at Charleston, 
 when about to sail,] with the consent of the whole 
 nation of Cherokees, at a general meeting of their 
 nation at Nequassee, were deputed by Moitoy, 
 their chief warrior, to attend Sir Alexander Cum- 
 
 VOL. n. 17 
 
194 THE CHEROKEE EMBASSAGE. 
 
 raing to Great Britain, where they had seen the 
 great king George, and where Sir Alexander, by 
 authority from Moitoy and all the Cherokees, had 
 laid the crown of their nation, with the scalps of 
 their enemies, and feathers of glory, at his ma 
 jesty's feet, as a pledge of their loyalty ; and 
 whereas the great king has instructed the lords 
 commissioners of trade and plantations, to inform 
 the Indians, that the English on all sides of the 
 mountains and lakes, were his people, their friends 
 his friends, their enemies his enemies ; that he took 
 it kindly that the great nation of Cherokee had 
 sent them so far to brighten the chain of friendship 
 between him arid them, and between his people 
 and their people ; that the chain of friendship be 
 tween him and the Cherokee is now like the sun, 
 which shines both m Britain and upon the great 
 mountains where they live, and equally warms the 
 hearts of Indians and Englishmen ; that, as there 
 is no spot or blackness in the sun, so neither is 
 there any rust or foulness on this chain ; and, as 
 the king has fastened one end to his breast, [suit- 
 ing the action to the word, in George's best and 
 bluffest style,] he desired them to carry the other 
 end of the chain and fasten it to the breast of Moi 
 toy, of Telliquo, and to the breasts of all their 
 
THE CHEROKEE EMBASSAGE. 195 
 
 wise old men, their captains and people, never 
 more to be made loose or broken. 
 
 " The great king and the Cherokees being thus 
 fastened together by a chain of friendship, he has 
 ordered, and it is agreed, that his children in Ca 
 rolina do trade with the Indians, and furnish them 
 with all manner of goods they want, and to make 
 haste to build houses and plant corn from Charles 
 ton towards the towns of the Cherokees behind the 
 great mountains. [Vague enough, and, like most 
 treaties with the Indians, carried on through dis 
 honest or imperfect interpreters, not understood by 
 one of the parties, and a frequent source of mischief 
 afterwards.] That he desires the English and 
 Indians may live together as children of one family 
 that the Cherokees be always ready to fight 
 against any nation, whether white men or Indians, 
 who shall molest or hurt the English that the 
 nation of the Cherokee shall, on its part, take 
 care to keep the trading path clean that there 
 be no blood on the path which the English tread, 
 even though they should be accompanied with other 
 people with whom the Cherokees may le at war 
 [what an exaction how is it possible that the 
 Cherokees should have understood this charge, 
 or, understanding, that they should have complied 
 with it ?] that the Cherokees shall not suffer their 
 
]96 THE CHEROKEE EMBASSAGE. 
 
 yeoyjle to trade, with ivhite men of any oilier nation 
 but the English [here is monopoly with a ven 
 geance!] nor permit, [mark this,] nor permit 
 white men of any other nation to Iniild any forts or 
 cabins, or plant any corn among them, upon lands 
 which belong to the great king." 
 
 Such was the morality of these selfish traders. 
 They actually excluded the savages from the exer 
 cise of those wonted rites of hospitality to white 
 men, and to Christians like themselves, (for the 
 French and Spaniards were contemplated by this 
 clause,) which the Cherokees had freely accorded 
 to the British, and which they must otherwise have 
 extended freely to all others. The treaty goes on 
 to provide, that, if any such attempt shall be made 
 by the white men of any other than the British 
 nation, the Cherokees must not only acquaint the 
 British government of the fact, but must do what 
 ever he directs, in order to maintain and defend 
 the " great king's right to the country of Caro 
 lina." The treaty further provides, " that if any 
 negroes shall run away into the woods from their 
 English masters, the Cherokees shall endeavor to 
 apprehend them, and bring them to the plantation 
 from whence they ran, or to the governor." 
 
 Hitherto the contract has been all on one side, 
 and the English king has never said " Turkey," 
 
THE CHEROKEE EMBASSAGE. 197 
 
 once, to his Cherokee brother ; but, at this stage 
 of the treaty, he seems to have recollected himself, 
 and, accordingly, we find him promising, that, 
 " for every slave so apprehended and brought 
 back, the Indian that brings him shall receive a 
 gun and a watch coat ; and if y by any accident, it' 
 shall happen that an Englishman shall kill a Che 
 rokee, [an event only possible, it seems,] the king 
 or chief of the nation shall first complain to the 
 English governor, and the man who did the harm 
 shall be punished by the English laws as if he had 
 killed an Englishman; and, in like manner, if any 
 Indian happens to kill [by any accident is entirely 
 wanting here] an Englishman, the Indian shall be 
 delivered up to the governor, to be punished by 
 the same English laws as if he were an English 
 man." 
 
 This was the substance of the first treaty be 
 tween the British and the Cherokee nation ; and a 
 precious specimen it is, of cunning beguiling sim 
 plicity, and of unfair relationship between parties 
 originally contracting on an equal footing of ad- 
 vantage. The Cherokee chiefs heard it first from 
 the lips of George, who paused at every sentence, 
 and, as the interpreter explained it, clause by 
 clause, a nobleman presented to the expecting 
 chiefs a rich present of cloths or ornaments, 
 17* 
 
198 THE CHEROKEE EMBASSAGE. 
 
 When the king had got through his task, he sud 
 denly withdrew through a private door, glad to 
 escape any farther embrace from his Cherokee 
 brethren. The further business of the treaty was 
 then concluded by Alured Popple, secretary to the 
 lords commissioners of trade and plantations, on 
 the one side, and by the marks of the Indian 
 chiefs on the other. The secretary, at the same 
 time, addressed them in a speech confirming the 
 words of the great king whom they had just seen ; 
 and, as a token that his heart was true and open 
 to the Cherokees, a belt was given the warriors, 
 which the king desired them to show to their 
 children and children's children, to confirm what 
 was now spoken, and to bind this agreement of 
 peace and friendship between the English and 
 the Cherokees, " as long as the rivers shall run, 
 the mountains shall stand, or the sun shall shine." 
 Such w r as the glowing termination of the secre 
 tary's speech. When he had concluded, the old 
 chief Tonestoi gave way to Skiajagustha, the fa 
 mous orator, who seemed to know his own claims to 
 reply for the rest. Gathering his robe over his 
 left shoulder, so as entirely to free the right arm, he 
 began his reply, the greater portion of which is 
 preserved as follows. It will be found to contain 
 
THE CHEROKEE EMBASSAGE. 199 
 
 quite as much good sense, dignity, and beauty, as 
 was called for by the occasion : 
 
 " We are come hither from the mountains, where 
 there is nothing but darkness. But we are now 
 in a place of light. We see the great king in 
 you we love you as you stand here for him. 
 We shall die in this thought. The crown of Che 
 rokee is not like that in the tower ; but, to us. they 
 are the same the chain shall be carried to our 
 people. The great king George is the sun he 
 is our father the Cherokees are his children. 
 Though we are red and you are white yet our 
 hearts and hands are tied together. We shall say 
 to our people what we have seen, and our children 
 shall remember it. In war we will be one with 
 you your enemies shall be ours we shall live 
 together as one people we shall die together. 
 We are naked and poor as the worms that crawl 
 but you have all things. We that have nothing 
 must love you. We will never break the chain 
 that is between us. This small rope we show you 
 is all that we have to bind our slaves You have 
 chains of iron for yours. We will catch your 
 slave that flies we will bind him as strongly as 
 we can, and we shall take no pay when we bring 
 him back to you. Your people shall build near 
 ours in safety. The Cherokee shall hurt them 
 
200 THE CHEROKEE EMEASSAGE. 
 
 not he shall hurt nothing that belongs to them. 
 Are we not children of one father shall we not 
 live and die together ?" 
 
 Here he paused, and one of the other chiefs 
 coming forward at a signal from the speaker, pre 
 sented him with a bunch of eagle feathers. Tak 
 ing them in his hand, Skiajagustha presented them 
 to the secretary with these words : 
 
 " This is our way of talking, which is the same 
 thing to us as your letters in the book to you. 
 These feathers, from the strong bird of Cherokee 
 these shall be witnesses for the truth of what I 
 have said. 1 ' 
 
 Thus discoursing eloquently together, the par 
 ties contracted to their mutual satisfaction, and 
 however unequal were the general advantages ob 
 tained, there was certainly no dissatisfaction ex 
 pressed among them. The terms were agreed 
 upon without discontent or difficulty, and it will 
 not be premature or anticipative, in this stage of 
 our narration, to say, in the language of the histo 
 rian, Ramsay, that in consequence of this treaty, 
 the Cherokees, for many years after, remained in 
 " a state of perfect friendship and peace with the 
 colonists, who followed their various employments 
 in the neighborhood of these Indians, without the 
 least terror or molestation." 
 
THE CHEROKEE EMBASSAGE. 201 
 
 But the nine days' wonder was now over in the 
 British metropolis. The Indian chiefs began to 
 lose their importance in the sight of their Euro 
 pean brethren. Some new monster soon occupied 
 their place, and Sir Alexander Gumming being 
 now prepared to return to Carolina, and the vessel 
 ready to depart, they had little reluctance at leav 
 ing a land, where, though every kindness and 
 courtesy had been shown them, they had found so 
 few objects and features at all like or kindred with 
 their own. They set sail from England on the 
 23d September, 1730, and, under favoring aspects 
 of wind and weather, were soon out upon the com 
 prehensive world and void of ocean. 
 
 But the second voyage was more tedious to the 
 chiefs than the first. That had novelty to recom 
 mend it the strange mass of all objects at sea, 
 relieved, in the first instance, its general monotony. 
 But the second brought all this home to them ; 
 and, what added to their dulness still more, was 
 the absence of Jacko the monkey was no lon 
 ger one of their fellow passengers. The sailor 
 who owned, had sold him, while in London, and 
 nothing could exceed the dissatisfaction of old To- 
 nestoi,on hearing of the circumstance. The first 
 thing he did on coming aboard the vessel, was to 
 call aloud for Toostenugga. But he called in 
 
202 THE CHEROKEE EMBASSAGE. 
 
 vain, and was with difficulty made to understand, 
 that his goblin acquaintance was left behind them. 
 He refused consolation, and chafed and almost 
 quarrelled with those who offered it. He drank 
 with Sir Alexander Gumming ; but that was all, in 
 the way of relief or amusement, that he could be 
 persuaded to do. In a state of moody absence, 
 as soon as his fit of sea sickness was well over, he 
 roamed about the ship, tumbling from side to side, 
 and, in his own language, muttering continually 
 of Toostenugga. Dreadfully, indeed, did he suf 
 fer from blue devils, and, in this mood, shooting 
 with his arrows wantonly at little spots in the sails, 
 he soon exhausted all his quiver, as the flying 
 shafts would generally, after a few discharges, find 
 their way into the bosom of the ocean. The other, 
 and younger, chiefs bore the voyage with far more 
 philosophy than their ancient comrade ; and with 
 that aptness which belongs to man in all situa 
 tions, and which we have erringly denied to the 
 Aborigines, they, at length, began to accommo 
 date themselves to the novel employments of the 
 sea. Skiajagustha, the great orator himself, was 
 the first to set an example of this discipline. He 
 seized upon the ropes on one occasion, and began 
 to tug away lustily along with the sailors. His 
 companions followed him, all but old Tonestoi, 
 
THE CHEROKEE EMBASSAGE. 203 
 
 and, from a sport at first, it grew to be a common 
 resort for exercise among them. Sir Alexander 
 Gumming, however, thought such practices unbe 
 coming in those who had royal blood in their 
 veins ; but, as there was no alternative, he could 
 suggest no objection. To Tonestoi, alone, he 
 could address himself; and, as the old chief took 
 no part in the amusements of his companions, he 
 was the more ready to sit gloomily and gravely 
 over the lengthened glass with the Englishman. 
 But his ennui continued to increase, and, at length, 
 to the great consternation of Sir Alexander, the 
 poor savage grew sick, and his free habit of drink 
 ing only made him worse. The liquor was then 
 withdrawn from him ; and this seemed to increase 
 his malady. The attack was a very severe one, 
 and, unhappily, but few precautions had been taken 
 against such an occasion. There were scarcely 
 any medicines on board ; and even these, the old 
 chief, with all the fretful obstinacy of a spoiled 
 child, could not be persuaded to take. Day by 
 day he grew worse, and it now became evident to 
 all that the danger was alarming. The younger 
 chiefs assembled about him, and Sir Alexander, 
 with deep concern, strove, through them, to per 
 suade him to the adoption of those remedies which 
 he proposed. He resolutely rejected all their 
 
204 THE CHEROKEE EMBASSAGE. 
 
 suggestions, and tossing about in his fever, from 
 side to side, he exhibited a feeble peevishness to all 
 around him his own people not excepted. Se 
 veral days passed over in this manner, and it was 
 evident to all that he had sunk amazingly. At 
 this stage of his illness, and while he was chafing 
 querulously with all of them, Skiajagustha ap 
 proached him where he lay. The brow of the 
 orator was stern and full of rebuke, and the first 
 words which he uttered, in his own sweet but so 
 lemn and emphatic language, rivetted the atten 
 tion of the dying warrior. He ceased to tumble 
 upon his couch he ceased to chafe and chide 
 those about him. The appeal of Skiajagustha had 
 been made to his manhood to his sense of the 
 dignity and the courage of a brave of Cherokee: 
 
 " Shall Tonestoi go to the Manneyto with the 
 word of a child on his tongue ? Shall he say to 
 the Master of Life, wherefore hast thou called me? 
 The brave man has another spirit when the dark 
 spirit wraps him. 
 
 " Tonestoi it is the word of the Cherokee 
 is a brave among the braves. He has taken scalps 
 from the light-heeled Catawba he has taken 
 scalps from the cunning Shawanese he has taken 
 scalps from the Creek warrior that rages he has 
 taken scalps from all the enemies of Cherokee. 
 
THE CHEROKEE EMBASSAGE. 205 
 
 He should have a song for his victories, that the 
 Great Manneyto shall be glad to receive him." 
 
 " Achichai-me !" cried Tonestoi in reply and, 
 in his own language, proceeded as follows : 
 
 "It is good, Skiajagustha it is good what thou 
 hast spoken. But I heard nqt before the words of 
 the Great Manneyto. I hear them through thee. 
 He has called me I hear him speaking in the 
 heart of Tonestoi I am going to the land of 
 spirits to the plum groves where my fathers 
 journey on the long hunt. I am not afraid to go, 
 The Master of Life knows I am ready." 
 
 "Ha! ha!" he sang a moment after 
 
 " Ha ! ha ! I laugh at my enemies. The Ca- 
 tawba could not take the scalp he could not 
 drink blood from Tonestoi. Ha ! ha ! That for 
 the Shawanee that for the Creek that rages 
 that for all the enemies of Cherokee. The Mas 
 ter of Life only can kill, and Tonestoi is ready* for 
 him. 
 
 " Bring me arrows, Skiajagustha bring me ar 
 rows, young Ee-fistoe of the Green Birds bring 
 me arrows, young braves of Cherokee the ar 
 rows shall speak for my victories." 
 
 They brought him arrows at his request, and he 
 separated the bundles, laying each shaft by itself. 
 The younger chiefs curiously gathered around 
 
 VOL. n. 18 
 
206 THE CHEROKEE EMBASSAGE", 
 
 him, as they well knew they were now to hear a 
 chronicle of his own and his country's achieve 
 ments ; and for every arrow, he had the story of 
 some brave adventure some daring deed. One 
 of them stood for his first battle with the Chicka- 
 saw, when, yet a mere boy, he went forth with his 
 old father, Canonjahee, on the war path against 
 that subtle nation. Another arrow was made to 
 signify his escape from a band of roving Shawa- 
 nese who had made him a prisoner while hunting; 
 a third told the affair with the Creeks, for* his bra 
 very in which his countrymen had made him a 
 chief feather chief and arrow chief; a fourth 
 recounted his long personal combat with Sarrata- 
 hay ofSantee, the big boned chief from that river, 
 who had come up on purpose to contend with him, 
 at the lower town of Chinebee. Tonestoi was the 
 victor after a long struggle, and this he dwelt upon 
 theTnost emphatically of all his victories. And 
 so, with a dozen other events, he associated the 
 arrows. For an hour his strain proceeded, and 
 the Indians listened with unrelaxing attention. 
 Sir Alexander Gumming, apprised of the nature 
 of the scene, hung over the dying chief with the 
 deepest interest ; and even the sailors, several of 
 them came as nigh to listen as they well might 
 
THE CHEROKEE EMBASSAGE. 207 
 
 without manifest impropriety. The old man lay 
 silent for some time after his song was ended. But 
 his chosen arrows had all been carefully gathered 
 up by Skiajagustha, who tied them closely toge 
 ther with the sinews of the deer. Towards eve 
 ning the chief grew much weaker, and he mut 
 tered fitfully, and started every now and then like 
 one from sleep. When the sun was about to set, 
 its faint delicate light streamed through the little 
 aperture in the cabin just where the dying man 
 lay. He started and strove to raise himself up to 
 behold the orb now sinking like himself. But fail 
 ing to do this, he only raised his right hand and 
 waved it towards the bright object which he could 
 not see. Skiajagustha bent towards him, and ut 
 tered two or three words in his own language, at 
 which all the other chiefs rose and bent over him. 
 Tonestoi gave each of them a look of recognition, 
 and, while muttering a brief sentence, probably one 
 of parting, his lower jaw suddenly dropped, then 
 caught up as in a spasm, then as suddenly again 
 relaxed and fell, never again to move. The light 
 grew dim in the eyes which yet opened upon the 
 spectators. 
 
 Skiajagustha laid the bunch of arrows upon the 
 breast of Tonestoi, where they remained until the 
 
208 THE CHEROKEE EMBASSAGE. 
 
 next day, when his body was committed to the 
 deep. They were then carefully preserved by the 
 survivors, as witnesses of the whole transaction, 
 and received as such by the people. They form 
 one of the tokens of Cherokee valor, and are pre 
 served to this very hour, among the trophies of the 
 nation. 
 
 THE END. 
 
BOOKS PUBLISHED 
 
 BY 
 
 GEORGE ADLARD, NEW YORK. 
 
 In one volume, I2mo., bound in cloth, lettered in gold, 
 SOUTHERN PASSAGES AND PICTURES, 
 
 A COLLECTION OP POEMS, 
 
 By the AUTHOR OF "ATALANTIS," "THE YEMASSEE," " GUY RIVERS," 
 "CARL WERNER," &c, 
 
 THE LOVE CHASE, 
 
 A Comedy. 
 By J. SHERIDAN KNOWLES. 
 
 Second American edition. I2mo. Sewed. 
 
 THE BRITISH AND FOREIGN 
 
 MEDICAL REVIEW, 
 
 OR 
 
 Q.UARTERLY JOURNAL OF MEDICINE 
 AND SURGERY. 
 
 Edited by DR. JOHN FORBES and DR. JOHN CONOLLY,' 
 Editors of the Cyclopaedia of Practical Medicine. 
 
 Published quarterly, and supplied to Subscribers at six dollars 
 per annum. 
 
BOOKS PUBLISHED BY 
 
 DEMOCRACY IN AMERICA, 
 
 BY 
 
 ALEXIS DE TOCQUEVILLE, 
 Avocat a la Cour Royale de Paris, etc., etc. 
 
 Translated by HENRY REEVE, Esq. With an original preface 
 and notes by John C. Spencer, Counsellor at Law. 
 
 One volume 8vo., neatly bound in cloth. 
 
 SECOND EDITION. 
 
 u Shortly after the publication of M. De Tocqueville's work 
 upon this country, we took occasion to treat its contents at 
 length. [See North American Review, vol. xliii. page 178.] We 
 then expressed our opinion of it, as ' by far the most philosophical, 
 ingenious, and instructive work, which had been produced in Eu 
 rope on the subject of America.' 
 
 " We repose on the authority of the work with more confidence 
 than ever, when we see how little it contains which so acute and 
 well informed an annotator as Mr. Spencer found to require cor 
 rection or explanation. And we earnestly wish that it may come 
 into extensive circulation among our countrymen ; agreeing as 
 we do with its editor, that ' the people described by a work of 
 such character should not be the only one in Christendom unac 
 quainted with its contents,' and that it cannot fail to promote, 
 with American readers, ' a more thorough knowledge of their 
 frames of government, and a more just appreciation of the great 
 principles on which they are founded.' " North American Re 
 view, No. 101, October, 1838. 
 
 " We consider this book as the most valuable addition which 
 has been for a long time made to our stock of political literature; 
 and as such, well worthy a place in every American library." 
 " It is singular that two of the best accounts which have appeared 
 of the laws and constitutions of England and of the United 
 
 ites, 
 
 should have been written by Frenchmen. The reputation of De 
 Lolme has been long established, and we think this of M. De 
 Tocqueville scarcely less remarkable, as a clear, accurate, and 
 philosophical view of the political institutions of a country foreign 
 to the author." New York American. 
 
 " A work, not inferior to Montesquieu, and on a par with the 
 best politico-philosophical works of Aristotle. Marshall, Kent, or 
 Story, could not have been, generally speaking, more correct in 
 the philosophy of our constitution. The study of such a work 
 by our young men, we need not add, will be of invaluable ser 
 vice to them and to their country." New York Daily Express, 
 
GEORGE ADLARD, NEW YORK. 
 
 " De Tocqueville appears to have had a clearer insight into the 
 nature and peculiarities of our institutions, and their effect upon 
 society, than any other foreigner who has written of this country ; 
 and, in endeavoring to explain to his countrymen what he had 
 studied so carefully and profoundly, he has traced these peculiar 
 ities and their consequences with more clearness, precision, and 
 minuteness, than any of our own writers have ever done." New 
 York Evening Post. 
 
 " Few modern books have been read with more interest, and 
 we may add profit, and few, wd feel confident, will continue to 
 be more often consulted. M. De Tocqueville looked at our coun 
 try and its institutions with an intelligence and a discrimination 
 that were neither warped one way nor the other." " It is an ex 
 cellent work, and much more valuable from the labors of the Ame 
 rican editor. Mr. Spencer's notes are just and judicious, without 
 exception." " The publisher has got it up excellently well, and 
 used a type and paper equal to the value of the work." New 
 York Gazette. 
 
 " While we feel pleasure in praising the talents and candor of 
 M. De Tocqueville, we must not lose sight of the obligations we 
 are under to Mr. Reeve, who has accomplished in so admirable a 
 manner the difficult task of rendering in English, not only the 
 letter ; but the spirit of a foreign language. Nor can we do other 
 wise than bear testimony to the excellence of the notes and preface 
 furnished by our talented fellow citizen, Mr. Spencer. It is rare , 
 to meet with a single volume in which so much ability of differ 
 ent individuals is united. This book ought certainly to be in the 
 hands of every person who desires to familiarize himself with 
 the institutions under which he lives. The very superior style of 
 its mechanical execution, though a consideration of far less im 
 portance, may assist in the introduction of this volume to the 
 centre-table or the library, where, when it has once gained admit 
 tance, we are confident it cannot remain longunperused." New 
 York Evening Star. 
 
 "We have lit length the gratification of perusing an elegant 
 American edition of this work, which is one of the most profound 
 and philosophical ever written upon the character and institutions 
 of our country." Boston Traveller. 
 
 " The sixth edition of ths work has been announced in Paris, 
 a notice of which we published some* weeks since ; and it has 
 been also published, a long time ago, both in England and in 
 Gennarty. These facts attest the faVor with which the work 
 has been received. The notes are appropriate and judicious, and 
 add materially to the value of the edition. Their object is chiefly 
 for the correction of errors, for the most part unimportant, arising 
 from inadvertence or misapprehension on the part of the author. 
 The publication will, without doubt, be an acceptable one to 
 American readers." Boston Daily Advertiser. 
 
 
PREPARING FOR PUBLICATION. 
 
 A new Medical Work, in 2 vols. 8vo. 
 To be entitled 
 
 MEDICAL AND PHYSIOLOGICAL 
 COMMENTARIES, 
 
 BY 
 
 MARTYN PAINE, A. M., M. D. 
 
 Professor of the Theory and Practice of Medicine in the Uni 
 versity of the City of New York, and author of Letters on the 
 Cholera Asphyxia of New York. 
 
 The subjects examined relate to obscure and controverted 
 questions in Pathology, and embrace a critical review of some of 
 the most important doctrines in Physiology and Medicine. 
 
 The typographical execution, paper, and general style, will be 
 similar to that of Bowditch's translation of Louis on Typhoid 
 Fever. Each volume will consist of at least 600 pages, and the 
 price to Subscribers will be six dollars for the two volumes, bound 
 in sheep, payable on delivery. A list of the names of Subscribers 
 will be published. 
 
 BILLARD'S TREATISE 
 ON THE DISEASES OF INFANTS, 
 
 Founded on recent Clinical Observations and Investigations 
 in Pathological Anatomy made at the " Hospice des Enfans 
 Trouves," at Paris, under the superintendence of Mons. BARON. 
 Translated from the third French edition, with notes, 
 
 By JAMES STEWART, M. D. 
 
 late Physician to the New York Orphan Asylum, and one of the 
 Consulting Physicians of the Northern Dispensary of the City 
 of New York. 
 
 In one volume, octavo, of about 700 pages. The price to Sub 
 scribers will be three dollars and a half, bound in sheep, payable 
 on delivery. 
 
 *** Subscribers' names for the above works are requested to 
 be forwarded to the Publisher, 
 
 GEO. ADLARD, 46 BROADWAY, NEW YORK. 
 
5- 
 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY 
 
II 
 
 
 ! 
 
 i