Bernard observing Holden wandering from his subject, here inquired, "And by a reversal of the process by which it was lost, the outward beauty may be recovered?"
"Yes. By the restoration of internal beauty. It is the latter that shapeth and shineth through the former. But the eyes of men are blinded, and they cannot, because they will not, see the truth. The crust of inherited corruption interposeth betwixt them and the light. Hence, having eyes they see not, and ears, and they cannot hear. There is a law to control the spiritual, and a law for the material, and it is by observance of these two laws, that man's first estate is to be regained. He must, therefore be temperate, and sober, and wise in the regulation of his appetites and passions, banishing those pernicious inventions, whereby he degradeth and engendereth disease in a glorious structure that ought to be the temple of the Holy Ghost, and must diligently cultivate all noble aspirations, weeding out selfishness and gross desires, loving his neighbor as himself, and the Lord his God with all his heart, which latter is the admiration and love of beauty, and truth and justice, and of whatever is excellent. Thus both outwardly and inwardly will gradually be transformed, the marred and defaced image of humanity into the glorious likeness of the Son of God."
"That day so longed for and so glorious, is far distant I fear," said
Mr. Armstrong.
"Nay, but the signs of His coming are kindling in the Eastern sky," exclaimed Holden, "and soon amid the hymns and hallelujahs of saints shall he establish His benign and resplendent empire. Then shall commence the upward career of the race, whose earthly goal is the state of primeval perfection; whose heavenly it hath not entered into the heart of man to conceive. Then in that bright Millennium, whose radiance streams through the advancing ages, shall man cast off the slough of ignorance and sin, and rise like the painted butterfly, on the wings of faith, into the serene air of truth."
Our readers must not hold us responsible for the sentiments of Holden. They are his own, and no one's else, and expressed in his own words, with all their wildness and incoherence. Opinions like these seem to have prevailed at all periods of the Christian era. They were entertained in the times of the Apostles, and are cherished now by a modern sect. Milton alludes to them in his treatise "Of Reformation in England" in language which for its stately eloquence, deserves to be transcribed to enrich this page. He speaks "of that day when Thou, the eternal and shortly-expected King, shalt open the clouds to judge the several kingdoms of the world, and distributing national honors and rewards to religious and just commonwealths, shalt put an end to all earthly tyrannies, proclaiming thy universal and mild monarchy through heaven and earth; when they undoubtedly, that by their labors, counsels, and prayers, have been earnest for the common good of religion, and their country, shall receive above the inferior orders of the blessed, the regal additions of principalities, legions, and thrones, into their glorious titles, and in super-eminence of beatific vision, progressing the dateless and irrevoluble circle of eternity, shall clasp inseparable hands with joy and bliss in over-measure for ever."
His auditors never thought of reasoning with or contradicting the Enthusiast. They listened in silence, only when he paused, making some inquiry or suggestion, in order to induce him to develop his notions still further; and so in conversation of this kind passed the evening.
Upon the departure of Bernard, Holden was pressed to pass the night at his host's, and accepted the invitation. The events of the day had proved to be too much for even his iron frame, and he was not unwilling to be relieved of the long walk to his hut. Before retiring, he listened reverently to a chapter from the Bible, read by Armstrong, and joined with him and Faith, in their customary devotions.
CHAPTER XXXVIII.
No man who sinks to sleep at night
Knows what his dreams shall be;
No man can know what wonder-sight
His inner eye shall see.
THOMAS L. HARRIS.
When Holden was left alone in his chamber, he sank into a seat and covered his face with both hands. He remained in this position for some time, and when he removed them, it was very pale, and exhibited traces of strong emotion. He cast his eyes slowly around the room, examining every part, not even the furniture escaping minute observation. But of all the objects a portrait that hung over the fire-place attracted the most attention. It was that of a man, past the prime of life, and who in youth must have possessed considerable beauty. The features were regular and well-formed, the forehead high and broad, and the hair long and abundant, waving in curls over the shoulders. What was the age designed to be portrayed, it was difficult to determine with any degree of exactness, for there was a contradiction between the parts which appeared scarcely reconcilable with one another. Looking at the furrows that seamed the face, its pallor, and the wrinkles of the brow, one would have said that the original must have been a man between sixty and seventy, while the hair, dark and glossy, indicated much less age. Yet, the perfection of the drawing, the flesh-like tints that melted into each other, and the air of reality that stamped the whole, proclaimed the portrait the work of a master, and it was impossible to avoid the conviction that it was an authentic likeness.
Holden placed the candle on the mantelpiece in such a manner as best to throw light upon the picture, and stood at a little distance to contemplate it. As he gazed, he began to fancy he discovered traits which had at first escaped his observation. An expression of pain and anxious sadness overspread the face, and gleams of light, like the glare of insanity, shot from the eyes. So strong was the impression, and so deeply was he affected, that as if incapable of enduring the sight, he shut his eyes, and turning away, paced several times backwards and forwards, without looking up. After a few turns, he stopped before the portrait, and fixed his eyes upon it again, but only for a moment, to resume his walk. This he did repeatedly, until at last, with a groan, he dropped into a chair, where, crossing his arms upon his breast, he remained for awhile lost in thought. Who can say what were the reflections that filled his mind? Was he considering whether the painter meant to delineate insanity, or whether it was not a delusion springing from his own disordered intellect?
It was a long time before sleep visited the Solitary in his soft and curtained bed. It might be owing to the events of the day, so startling and unusual; it might be on account of the yielding bed, so different from his own hard couch; or in consequence of the effect produced by the portrait; or of all these causes combined, that sleep was long in coming, and when it did come, was disturbed with dreams, and unrefreshing. Before, however, Holden fell asleep, he had lain, as if under the influence of a spell, looking at the picture on which the beams of the moon, stealing through the branches of the large elm that shaded the house, flickered uncertainly and with a sort of wierd effect, as the night wind gently agitated the leaves.
It seemed to Holden, so insensibly glided his last waking thought into his dreams making one continuous whole, that the portrait he had been looking at was a living person, and he was astonished that he had mistaken a living being for a piece of painted canvas. In a stern, deep voice the man who had taken possession of the chair in which he himself had been sitting, ordered him to approach. If Holden had been so disposed, he had no ability to disobey the command. He, therefore advanced towards the figure, and at a signal knelt down at his feet. The man, thereupon, stretching out his hands, laid them upon his head in the attitude of benediction. He then rose from his seat, and making a sign to Holden to follow him, they noiselessly descended the stairs together, and passed into the moonlight. The man constantly preceding him, they went on, and by familiar paths and roads, and in the ordinary time that would be required to accomplish the distance, arrived at a spot on the banks of the Wootúppocut well known to Holden. Here the stranger stopped, and seating himself upon the trunk of a felled tree, motioned to his companion to be seated. Holden obeyed, waiting for what should follow. Presently he saw two figures, a male and female, approaching. The latter was veiled, and although the face of the man was exposed, it swam in such a hazy indistinctness that it was impossible to make out the features. Still it seemed to him that they were not entirely unknown, and he tormented himself with ineffectual attempts to determine where he had seen them. He turned to his guide to ask who they were, but before he could speak the stranger of the portrait placed his fingers on his lips, as if to require silence. The two persons advanced until they reached a small brook that babbled down a ravine, and fell into the river. Suddenly something glittered in the air; the figures vanished; and upon looking at the brook Holden beheld, to his horror, that it was red like blood. He turned in amazement to his guide, who made no reply to the look of inquiry, unless the word "Friday," which he uttered in the same deep tone, can be so considered.
Holden awoke, and the sweat was standing in great drops on his forehead. As his senses and recollection were gradually returning, he directed his eyes towards the place where the portrait hung, half in doubt whether he should see it again. The beams of the moon no longer played upon it, but there was sufficient light in the room to enable him to distinguish the features which now, more and more distinctly emerged to sight. The hollow eyes were fixed on his, and the word "Friday" seemed still quivering on the lips.
Holden lay and thought over his dream. With the young and imaginative, dreams are not uncommon, but with the advanced in life they are usually unfrequent. As the fancy decays,—as the gay illusions that brightened our youth disappear, to give place to realities,—as the blood that once rushed hurriedly, circulates languidly—farewell to the visions that in storm or sunshine flitted around our pillows.
It cannot, indeed, be said that Holden never had dreams. The excitable temperament of the man would forbid the supposition, but, even with him, they were uncommon. He turned the one he had just had over and over again, in his mind; but, reflect upon it as he pleased, he could make nothing out of it, and, at last, with a sense of dissatisfaction and endeavoring to divert his mind from thoughts that banished sleep, he forgot himself again.
His slumbers were broken and harassed throughout the night, with horrid dreams and vague anticipations of further evil. At one time he was at his cabin, and his son lay bleeding in his arms, pierced by the bullet of Ohquamehud. At another, Faith was drowning, and stretching out her hands to him for succor, and as he attempted to hasten to her assistance, her father interfered and held him violently back. And at another, he was falling from an immeasurable height, with the grip of the Indian at his throat. Down—down he fell, countless miles, through a roaring chaos, trying to save himself from strangulation, until, just as he was about to be dashed to pieces against a rock, he awoke sore and feverish.
The sun was already some distance above the horizon as Holden rose from his troubled slumbers. The cool air of morning flowed with a refreshing sweetness through the open window, and the birds were singing in the branches of the large elm. With a feeling of welcome he beheld the grateful light. He endeavored to recall and reduce to some coherency the wild images of his dreams, but all was confusion, which became the more bewildering, the longer he dwelt upon them, and the more he strove to untangle the twisted skein. All that he could now distinctly remember, were the place whither he had been led, and the word spoken by the portrait.
When he descended to breakfast, both Mr. Armstrong and his daughter remarked his disordered appearance, and anxiously inquired, how he had passed the night. To these inquiries, he frankly admitted, that he had been disturbed by unpleasant dreams.
"You look," said Mr. Armstrong, "like the portrait which hangs in the chamber where you slept. It is," he continued, unheeding the warning looks of Faith, "the portrait of my father, and was taken a short time before he was seized with what was called a fit of insanity, and which was said to have hastened his death.
"How is it possible, dear father, you can say so?" said Faith, anxious to prevent an impression she was afraid might be made on Holden's mind.
"I do not mean," continued Armstrong, with a singular persistency, "that Mr. Holden's features resemble the portrait very much; but there is something which belongs to the two in common. Strange that I never thought of it before!"
Holden during the conversation had sat with drooping lids, and a sad and grieved expression, and now, as he raised his eyes, he said, mournfully—
"Thou meanest, James, that I, too, am insane. May Heaven grant that neither thou nor thine may experience the sorrow of so great a calamity."
Faith was inexpressibly shocked. Had any one else spoken thus, with a knowledge of Holden's character, she would have considered him unfeeling to the last degree, but she knew her father's considerateness and delicacy too well to ascribe it to any other cause than to a wandering of thought, which had of late rapidly increased, and excited in her mind an alarm which she trembled to give shape to. Before she could interpose, Armstrong again spoke—
"Insane!" he said. "What is it to be insane? It is to have faculties exalted beyond the comprehension of the multitude; to soar above the grovelling world. Their eyes are too weak to bear the glory, and, because they are blind, they think others cannot see. The fools declared my father was insane. They say the same of you, Holden, and, the next thing, I shall be insane, I suppose. Ha, ha!"
Holden himself was startled. He muttered something indistinctly before he answered—
"May the world never say that of thee, dear James!"
"Why not?" inquired Armstrong, eagerly. "Alas! you consider me unworthy to be admitted to the noble band of misunderstood and persecuted men? True, true! I know it to be true. My earthly instincts fetter me to earth. Of the earth, I am earthy. But what shall prevent my standing afar off, to admire them? What a foolish world is this! Were not the prophets and apostles denounced as insane men? I have it, I have it," he added, after a pause, "inspiration is insanity."
Holden looked inquiringly at Faith, whose countenance evinced great distress; then, turning to Armstrong, he said—
"Thou art not well, James. Perhaps, like me, thou hast passed a disturbed night?"
"I have, of late been unable to sleep as well as formerly," said Armstrong. "There is a pain here," he added, touching his forehead, "which keeps me awake."
"Thou needest exercise. Thou dost confine thyself too much. Go more into the open air, to drink in the health that flows down from the pure sky."
"It is what I urge frequently on my dear father," said Faith.
"Faith is an angel," said Holden. "Listen to her advice. Thou canst have no better guide."
"She shall redeem my soul from death," said Armstrong.
When Holden left the house of his host, he determined to carry into effect a resolution which, it appeared now to himself, he had strangely delayed, such was the influence what he had just seen and heard exercised over him. That Fate or mathematical Providence, however, in which he so devoutly believed, notwithstanding he acted as though none existed, seemed as if, tired out with his procrastination and irresolution, determined to precipitate events and force him to lift the veil, that for so many years—with a wayward temper and love of mystery, inexplicable by any motives that regulate the movements of ordinary minds—he had chosen to spread around himself. What followed only convinced him more thoroughly, if that were possible, of his helplessness on the surging tide of life and of the delusion of those who imagine they are aught but bubbles, breaking now this moment, now that, according to a predetermined order.
CHAPTER XXXIX.
We receive but what we give
And in our life alone does nature live.
COLERIDGE.
Mr. Armstrong was disposed to gratify his daughter, and to follow the advice of Holden. That very morning, soon after the departure of the Solitary, he accepted an invitation from Judge Bernard, to take a drive with him to one of his farms in the afternoon. Accordingly, the one-horse chaise, which was the usual vehicle in those days, of gentlemen who drove themselves, stopped, late in the day, at Armstrong's door.
"Anne hopes," said the Judge, as they were about to start, "that in retaliation for my capture of your father, Faith, you will come and take possession of her. For my own part, if I can bring him back with a little more color in his cheeks, I shall expect a kiss or two."
"You shall have three, dear Judge, for every smile you can win from father," exclaimed Faith.
The road which the gentlemen took, led, at first, after leaving the table-land on which their houses were situated, through the thickly-settled and business part of the town, at the head of the Severn, the whole of which it traversed, and then approaching the banks of the Wootúppocut, followed its windings in a direction towards its source. The country through which the river flowed presented an appearance of soft and varied beauty, the view of which, while the cool breeze across the stream fanned the fevered brain of Armstrong, ought, if anything could, to have soothed his jarring nerves, and breathed a portion of its own tranquillity into his heart. Is it not true what the sweet poet sings of Nature and her lover, that
"She glides
Into his darker musings with a mild
And gentle sympathy, that steals away
Their sharpness ere he is aware?"
The river, for the greater part of the drive, flowed through a valley, which it divided into two very unequal portions, skirting occasionally with its left bank the woods that ran quite down the sides of the hills to the water, and then winding away to the right, leaving considerable intervals of level land betwixt itself and the woods above mentioned, but, almost invariably, having still wider expanses of champaign, that gradually ascended from the stream, until it met the forest-covered hills that bounded the valley, on the right. In some instances, the woods extended on both sides down to the river, throwing an agreeable shade over the way-farers, and shedding abroad a cool, moist freshness, that brought with itself a woodland-scent, compounded of the fragrance of sassafras, and fern, and sweet-briar, and mosses, and unknown plants. Then, again the road would run for a considerable distance through an open space, unshaded by trees, to cross, a little further on, another belt of woods, thus making their darkened recesses doubly grateful from the contrast of alternating light and shade, while all along the stream murmured a soft expression of thanks for the lovely country it irrigated, for the blue sky, that mirrored itself in its bosom with floating clouds, for the sunshine sparkling on its ripples, and for the overhanging woods, and birds, that sung among the branches.
The disordered spirit of Armstrong was not insensible to the charm. He gazed round, and drank in the beauty by which he was surrounded. He scented the sweetness of the woods, and it seemed to impart an agreeable exhilaration. In the pauses of the conversation, hitherto carried on almost entirely by Judge Bernard, he listened to the monotonous, yet soothing flow of the water, and it sounded like an invitation to cast off trouble. As he listened the shooting pain in his head diminished, his thoughts became less sombre, and he surrendered himself to something like enjoyment. Very soon it seemed as if he were exerting himself to be agreeable to his companion, and to make up, by taking a more active part in the conversation, for former silence and neglect.
"This clear river," he said, "this beautiful valley, with its quiet woods, are a blessing to me to-day. It is a pleasure to breathe the air. Has Italy bluer skies?"
"The encomiums of travellers on the skies of Italy are to be received by us with some qualification," answered the Judge. "They are mostly written by Englishmen, and the comparison is between the humid climate of England and the drier one of Italy. This being borne in mind, the praises lavished on Italian skies are just. But as compared with ours, they can boast of little or no superiority in beauty. I have seen as gorgeous heavens in my own country as ever glorified the land of the Cæsars."
"And how is it with the landscape?"
"There we must yield to Europe. We have nothing to be compared with the grandeur of the Swiss mountains, or the combination of loveliness and magnificence around the lake of Geneva."
"But Niagara!"
"Aye, Niagara! unequalled and alone. There can be but one Niagara."
"And the Alleghany and White Mountains?"
"Fine scenery, but hills in comparison with the mountains of
Switzerland."
"And now for the works of man. You must have been struck by the contrast between the towns in our own country and in Europe."
"Yes, certainly, the difference is great."
"In what does it consist?"
"Principally in the newness of the one, and the oldness of the other. There, what one sees reminds him of the past; here, he beholds only presentiments of the future."
"There is a great difference, I am told, and read too, in the style of building."
"You may well say that. Here there is no style. Our houses are models of bad taste, and pretty much all alike. The time will undoubtedly come when we shall have a domestic architecture, but it will require some years before we get rid of narrow cornices, innumerable small windows, and exclusive white paint."
"You should make allowances for us," said Armstrong, deprecatingly. "Consider the poverty of a new country, and the material that poverty compels us to use."
"I am willing to allow the excuse all the weight it deserves, but I cannot understand how poverty can be an excuse for bad taste, or why because wood is used, a house may not be made to have an attractive appearance. I think there are other reasons more efficacious than the plea of poverty, which can, indeed, no longer be made."
"Come, come," said Armstrong, "you do not love anything about us Puritans, and your objections, if politeness would allow you to speak them out plainly, would be found to contain a fling at Calvin's children; but hearken, if I cannot find excuses to satisfy even you."
"I shall listen eagerly, but must correct you in one thing. I not only love some things about the Puritans, but some Puritans themselves."
"Surely, I know it. But now listen to my defence. The first settlement of the country was attended with a great many hardships. The country was colder than the immigrants were accustomed to; they arrived in the winter, and the first thing to be attended to was to secure shelter. Under these circumstances you will admit that attention to the principles of architecture was not to be expected. They knocked up houses as cheaply, and plainly, and rapidly as possible, content if they kept out wind and weather. Wood was preferred, because it was cheaper, and quicker worked. Thus lived the first generation. The condition of the second was somewhat improved; they had become accustomed to their houses and were tolerably satisfied. The third had never seen anything better, and not having the means of comparison, could not make it to their own disadvantage, and finally, as man is a creature of custom and habit, and reverence, they learned to regard a style of building that had sprung out of the necessities of their ancestors, as an evidence not only of good sense, but of good taste. The immigrants, arriving from time to time, might have disabused them, but these would naturally fall into the ways and sentiments of the people, and were their tastes ever so ambitious, probably had not the means to gratify them. This is the origin, and thus is to be explained the continuance of American architecture."
"An architecture," said the Judge, "that would have driven a Greek out of his senses. But though I will not quarrel with you about its origin, does not its perpetuation for so long a time affect the character of our countrymen for taste?"
"It will pass away," said Armstrong, gloomily, "and with it the stern virtues that are of more importance than a trifle like this."
"There can be no connection between an improvement in architecture, and a deterioration of morals."
"Prosperity brings wealth, and wealth is the means to gratify the caprices of luxury and taste. Perhaps, at some future day when stone and marble shall have susperseded wood and brick; and magnificent Grecian and Gothic temples, resplendent in stained glass, taken the places of the humble, unpretentious meeting-houses, the thoughtful and judicious will sigh for those times of primitive simplicity, when an humble heart was more than an ostentatious offering, and God's word was listened to devoutly on hard seats instead of being dozed over in cushioned pews."
"You are becoming gloomy, Armstrong," said the Judge. "This will never do. Progress, man, progress I tell you is the word. The world is improving every day. Banish these sick fancies."
Armstrong shook his head. "I envy you," he said, "your hopeful and joyous spirit, while I know you are mistaken."
"Well, well, my friend, I wish I could give you a portion of it. But to come back to where we started from. After finding so much fault, it is time to praise. However we may ridicule the ugliness of our houses, this much must be admitted in favor of our villages and country towns, that in cleanliness and an appearance of substantial comfort, they infinitely surpass their rivals in Europe. I do not except the villages in England. Who can walk through one of our New England country towns, where majestic elms throw their shadows over spacious streets, and the white rose clambers over the front doors of the neat, white painted houses, standing back a rod or two from the street with gardens stretching behind, while Peace and Plenty bless the whole, and not be grateful for a scene so fair, for a land so fortunate!"
They had now arrived in sight of the Judge's farm-house, which stood at some distance from the main road, from which a lane planted on both sides with maples, led to it. As they drove along the Judge pointed out the changes he had made since he became the owner.
"When I purchased the property," he said, "the house looked very differently. It was stuck full of little insignificant windows that affected me like staring eyes; its two or three inches of cornice stole timidly out, as if ashamed of itself, over the side, and the whole wore an awkward and sheepish air. It made me uncomfortable every time I looked at it, and I resolved upon an alteration. So I shut up half the windows, and increased the size where I could, and threw out a cornice, which, besides the merit of beauty, has the practical advantage (that is the national word, I believe) of acting as an umbrella to protect the sides against the mid-day heat of the sun in summer, and the storms in winter. Besides, I added the veranda, which runs nearly the whole length of the front."
"I confess it is an improvement upon the ancestral style," said
Armstrong.
"I expected the acknowledgment from your natural taste, which is excellent," said the Judge laughing, "except when corrupted by traditional prejudices. I must take care of my horse myself, I suspect," he added, as they drove up to the door: "the men are probably all in the fields. He will stand, however, well enough under this shed." So saying, and after Armstrong had alighted at the door, he drove the horse under a shed, near the barn, and fastened him; then joining Armstrong, the two entered the house.
"La, Judge!" said Mrs. Perkins, the farmer's wife who received them, smoothing down her check apron, "you take us by surprise to-day. We didn't expect you, and the men-folks is all in the lot. Didn't you find your ride very warm?"
"Not very; and if it had been, the pleasure of seeing you, Mrs.
Perkins, would more than compensate for any annoyance from the heat."
"You are so polite, Judge," replied Mrs. Perkins, simpering. "I declare you are equal to a Frenchman."
With all his French education, this was a remark the Judge would have been willing to dispense with; however on the French principle of considering that as a compliment, the meaning of which is equivocal, he bowed and introduced Mr. Armstrong.
Mrs. Perkins courtesied. "She'd heard," she said, "of Mr. Armstrong, and that he had the handsomest daughter, in the town of Hillsdale."
"It is your turn now," whispered the Judge. "Let me see how you will acquit yourself."
But Armstrong was not a man for compliments.
"Faith looks as well as young ladies generally I believe," he said.
Mrs. Perkins did not like to have her pretty speech received with so much indifference, so she answered,
"I was, perhaps, too much in a hurry when I called Squire Armstrong's daughter, the handsomest: I forgot Anne, and she's a right to be, sence she's got her father's good looks."
"Dear Mrs Perkins, you overwhelm me!" exclaimed the Judge, bowing still lower than before. "I think higher than ever of your taste."
"Ah! You're poking fun at me, me now," said Mrs. Perkins, hardly knowing how to receive the acknowledgment. "But wouldn't you like to take something after your ride?"
Those were not the days of temperance societies, and it would have been quite secundum regulas, had the gentlemen accepted the offer as intended by their hostess. The Judge looked at Armstrong, who declined, and then turning to Mrs. Perkins said,
"The strawberry season is not over, I believe"—
"Oh! I can give you strawberries and cream," interrupted the hospitable Mrs. Perkins.
"And would you be so kind as to give them to us in the veranda? The sun does not shine in, and it will be pleasanter in the open air."
"Sartainly. Eliza Jane!" she cried, elevating her voice and speaking through an open door to one of her little daughters, with a blooming multitude of whom Providence had blessed her,
"Eliza Jane, fetch two cheers into the piazza. That piazza, Judge, is one of the grandest things that ever was. The old man and me and the children, take ever so much comfort in it."
"I am glad you like it. But we will spare your daughter the trouble of taking out the chairs, and carry them ourselves."
"Not for the world, Judge, for I think it's best to make children useful."
Accordingly Eliza Jane brought the chairs, and the mother retiring with her, soon returned with the little girl, bearing in her hands a tray containing the strawberries and cream. The Judge kissed the child, and gave her a half dollar to buy a ribbon for her bonnet.
"I do declare Judge!" cried the mother, whose gratified looks contradicted the language, "you'll spoil Eliza Jane."
"A child of yours cannot be spoiled, Mrs. Perkins," said the Judge, "as long as she is under your eye. With your example before her, she is sure to grow up a good and useful woman."
"Well, I try to do my duty by her," said Mrs. Perkins, "and I don't mean it shall be any fault of mine, if she ain't."
It was nearly sunset by the time the gentlemen had finished, when the
Judge proposed to visit a piece of wood he was clearing at no great
distance from the house. Armstrong acquiesced, and they started off,
Mrs. Perkins saying, she should expect them to stop to tea.
Their route lay through some woods and in the direction of the Wootúppocut, on whose banks the clearing was being made. As they approached, they could hear, more and more distinctly, the measured strokes of an axe, followed soon by the crash of a falling tree. Then, as they came still nearer, a rustling could be distinguished among the leaves and the sound of the cutting off of limbs. And now they heard the bark of a dog, and a man's voice ordering him to stop his noise.
"Keep still, Tige!" said the voice. "What's the use of making such a racket? I can't hear myself think. I say stop your noise! shut up!"
"It is Tom Gladding, whom Perkins hired to make the clearing, one of the best wood-choppers in the country. It is wonderful with what dexterity he wields an axe."
As the Judge uttered these words, the two gentlemen emerged from the wood into the open space, denuded of its sylvan honors, by the labors of Gladding.
The clearing (as it is technically termed), was perhaps a couple of acres in extent, in the form of a circle, and surrounded on all sides by trees, only a narrow strip of them, however, being left on the margin of the river, glimpses of which were caught under the branches and the thin undergrowth. A brook which came out of the wood, ran, glistening in the beams of the setting sun, and singing on its way across the opening to fall into the Wootúppocut. The felled trees had been mostly cut into pieces of from two to four feet in length, and collected into piles which looked like so many altars scattered over the ground. Here it was intended they should remain to dry, during the summer, to be ready for a market in the fall.
"So it's you, Judge and Mr. Armstrong," exclaimed Gladding as the two came up. "I guessed as much, that somebody was coming, when I heard Tige bark. He makes a different sort of a noise when he gits on the scent of a rabbit or squirrel."
"I dare say, Tiger knows a great deal more than we fancy," said the Judge. "Why, Gladding you come on bravely. I had no idea you had made such destruction."
"When I once put my hand to the work," said Tom, laughing, "down they must come, in short metre, if they're bigger than Goliah. Me and my axe are old friends, and we've got the hang of one another pretty well. All I have to do, is to say, 'go it,' and every tree's a goner."
After this little bit of vanity, Tom, as if to prove his ability to make good his boast by deeds, with a few well-directed blows, that seemed to be made without effort, lopped off an enormous limb from the tree he had just cut down.
"I've heard tell," said Tom, continuing his employment of cutting off the limbs, "that the Britishers and the Mounseers don't use no such axes as ourn. You've been across the Big Pond, and can tell a fellow all about it."
"It is true, they do not. The European axe is somewhat differently shaped from your effective weapon."
"The poor, benighted critturs!" exclaimed Tom, in a tone of commiseration. "I saw one of them Parleyvoos once, try to handle an axe, and I be darned, if he didn't come nigh cutting off the great toe of his right foot. If he hadn't been as weak as Taunton water—that, folks say, can't run down hill—as all them outlandish furriners is, and had on, to boot, regular stout cowhiders, I do believe he'd never had the chance to have the gout in one toe, anyhow. Why, I'd as soon trust a monkey with a coal of fire, in a powder-house, as one of them chaps with an axe."
"We have the best axes, and the most skillful woodmen in the world," said the Judge, not unwilling to humor the harmless conceit of the wood-chopper.
"It's plaguy lucky we have, seeing as how we've got so many thousands and thousands of acres to clear up," said Tom, with a sort of confused notion, that the skill of his countrymen was a natural faculty not possessed by "furriners." "But, Judge," he added, "I'm astonished at your cutting down the trees at this season of the year, and it kind o' goes agin my conscience to sling into 'em."
"I know what you mean. You think they ought not to be cut when the sap is rising. I suppose, the fire-wood is not so good?"
"Not half. Turn the thing as you choose, and you'll see you're wrong. In the first place, the wood ain't nigh as good; then, you lose the growth the whole summer, and, lastly, you take away a fellow from business that's more profitable."
"How?" said the Judge. "Do I not give you full wages? Can you get higher wages elsewhere?"
"No fault to find with the pay," answered Tom; "that's good enough. But, that ain't the idee. What I'm at is, that when I work, I like to see something useful come to pass. Now, every time I strike a blow, it seems to go right to my heart; for, I says to myself, this ain't no season for cutting wood. The Judge don't understand his own interest, and he's only paying me for injuring him."
Judge Bernard was too well-acquainted with the honest independence of Gladding to be offended at his uncomplimentary frankness. Nor, indeed, looking at it from Tom's point of view, could he avoid feeling a certain respect for that right-mindedness, which regarded not merely the personal remuneration to be received, but, also, the general benefit to be produced. He laughed, therefore, as he replied—
"You do not seem to set much value on my judgment, Gladding. Perhaps,
I have objects you do not see."
"It ain't to be expected," said Tom, "and it ain't rational to suppose, that a man, who, when he was young, spent his time travelling over all creation, and then when he come home, took to the law, should know much about these matters; though, I guess you know as much as most folks, who ain't been brought up to 'em. But, as you say, it's likely you've got reasons of your own, as plenty as feathers in a bed, and I've been talking like most folks whose tongues is too long, like a darned fool."
"You are too hard on yourself, now. But, for your consolation, we will stop to-day with this piece of work, and you shall not be pained to cut down any more trees out of season. The clearing is as large as I wish it, and we will see to the burning of the brush, when it is drier. But, where is Mr. Armstrong?"
Armstrong, at the commencement of the conversation, had strayed away by himself, and sat down by one of the altar-like piles of wood, near the margin of the brook. Here he leaned his head on his hand, and seemed lost in meditation. He was in this posture when the exclamation was made by the Judge, who, on looking round, discovered the missing man, and immediately advanced toward him. So deep was his abstraction, that it was not until his friend's hand rested on his shoulder that he was aware of the other's presence. He arose, and the two retraced their steps together. The sun, by this time, had sunk behind the horizon, and, as they passed, Gladding threw his axe on his shoulder and joined their company.
"I'm glad," said the wood-chopper, as they stepped out of the clearing, and turned to look back upon what he had accomplished, "that job's done, and I can turn my hand to something else more like summer work."
"Do you mean to proceed no further with your chopping?" inquired
Armstrong.
"Not at present. All has been done that I desired, and I ought to respect Gladding's conscientious scruples."
Armstrong looked inquiringly from one to the other, but asked no question.
The hospitable invitation of Mr. and Mrs. Perkins was too pressing to be resisted, and it was not until the full moon had risen, that the gentlemen departed. The soft beauty of the delicious evening, or some other cause, exercised an influence over Armstrong, that disposed him to silence and meditation, which his companion perceiving, they returned home without exchanging scarcely a dozen words.
CHAPTER XL.
Man is a harp, whose cords elude the sight,
Each yielding harmony disposed aright;
The screws reversed (a task which if he please,
God in a moment executes with ease),
Ten thousand thousand strings at once go loose,
Lost, till he tune them, all their power and use.
COWPER
The aberration of mind of the unhappy Mr. Armstrong was at last with inevitable and steady step approaching its dreaded culminating point. To the outward eye he exhibited but little change. He was indeed, at times more restless, and his eyes would wander round as if in quest of some object that was trying to elude his sight; at one moment listless, silent, and dejected, and again animated, almost gay, like one who, ashamed of an exhibition of moody temper, tries to atone by extraordinary efforts of amiability for the error. His intimate friends had some knowledge of these changes, and to Faith, above all, living with him in the same house, and in the tender relation of a daughter to a parent, each of whom idolized the other, they were painfully apparent, and great was the anxiety they occasioned. How bitter were the tears which in solitude she shed, and frequent and fervent her supplications to the universal Father to pity and protect her father! How willingly, even at the sacrifice even of her own life, would she have restored peace and happiness to him!
But to the neighbors, to those who saw Armstrong only in public, no great change was manifest. He was thinner and paler than usual, to be sure, but every one was liable to attacks of indisposition, and there was no reason why he should be exempt; he did not speak a great deal, but he was always rather taciturn, and when he did converse, it was with his usual sweetness and affability. They guessed he'd be better after a while.
Such was the common judgment in the little community among those who had any knowledge of Armstrong's condition. They saw him daily in the streets. They conversed with him, and could see nothing out of the way. But some few who recollected the history of the family, and the circumstances attending the latter years of Armstrong's father, shook their heads, and did not hesitate to intimate that there had always been something strange about the Armstrongs. Curious stories, too, were told about the grandfather, and there was a dim tradition, nobody knew whence it came, or on what authority it rested, that the original ancestor of the family in this country, was distinguished in those days of ferocious bigotry, when the Indians were regarded by many as Canaanites, whom it was a religious duty to extirpate, as much for an unrelenting severity against the natives, bordering even on aberration of mind, as for reckless courage.
It is sad to look upon the ruins of a palace in whose halls the gay song and careless laugh long ago echoed; to contemplate the desolation of the choked fountains in gardens which were princely; and with difficulty to make one's way through encroaching weeds and tangled briers, over what once were paths where beauty lingered and listened to the vow of love; or to wander through the streets of a disentombed city, or seated on a fallen column, or the stone steps of the disinterred amphitheatre, to think of the human hearts that here, a thousand years agone, beat emulously with the hopes and fears, the loves and hates, the joys and sorrows, the aspiration and despair that animate or depress our own, and to reflect that they have all vanished—ah, whither? But however saddening the reflections occasioned by such contemplations, however much vaster the interests involved in them, they do not affect us with half that wretched sorrow with which we gaze upon the wreck of a human mind. In the former case, that which has passed away has performed its part; on every thing terrestial "transitory," is written, and it is a doom we expect, and are prepared for; but in the latter it is a shrouding of the heavens; it is a conflict betwixt light and darkness, where darkness conquers; it is an obscuration and eclipse of the godlike. We therefore feel no desire to dwell upon this part of our history, but, on the contrary, to glide over it as rapidly as is consistent with the development of the tale.
Next after Faith, the faithful Felix noticed, with disquietude, the alteration in his master, and many were the sad colloquies he held with Rosa on the subject. Holden in some way or another was connected in his mind with the cause of Mr. Armstrong's melancholy, for although for several years the latter had not been remarkably cheerful, yet it was only since Holden's acquaintance had become intimacy, that that melancholy deepened into gloom. The simple fellow naturally looked round for some cause for the effect, and none presented itself so plausible as the one he adopted.
"I wish," he had repeatedly said to Rosa, "that the old man would stay away. I'd see the divil with as much satisfacshum as him. Miss Faith too, I am sorry to say, is out of her wits."
One morning when Felix went up stairs, in answer to his master's bell, he could not avoid remarking on his altered appearance.
"I hope you will 'scuse me, sir," he said, "but me and the servants very much alarm about you, sir."
"I am obliged to you, Felix, and to all of you, but really there is no occasion for any alarm," said Mr. Armstrong.
"The case is the alarmingest when the patient doesn't know how sick he is. There was my old friend, Pompey Topset. He was setting up on the bed, when I come in to see him, smoking a pipe. And says he, says Pompey to me, says he, Felix, how do you do? this child never feel better. Then he give one puff and his head fall on the breast, and the pipe jump out of his mouth and burnt the clothes, and where was Pompey! He never," added Felix, shaking his head, "was more mistaken in all his life."
Mr. Armstrong was obliged to smile. "So you think me in as dangerous a condition as Pompey was, when he took his last smoke."
"Bless you, Mr. Armstrong for the sweet smile," exclaimed, the negro. "If you know how good it make me feel here, (laying his hand on his heart) you would smile pretty often. I can remember when the wren wasn't merrier than you, and you laughed almost as much as this fool Felix." At the recollection of those happy days, poor Felix pressed his hands upon his eyes, and tried to hide the tears, that in spite of his efforts stole through the fingers. "But," continued he, "I hope in the name of marcy, that you ain't so bad off as Pompey. That can't be. I only spoke of him for the sake of—of—the illumination."
"And what would you have me do?" inquired Armstrong, desirous to take all possible notice of the affectionate fellow.
"I pufess a high 'pinion of the doctor," answered Felix. "There is no man who gives medicine that tastes worse, and therefore must be the powerfullest. I would proscribe the doctor, sir."
"You would prescribe the doctor? Ah, Felix, I am afraid my case has nothing to do with his medicines."
"There is one other thing I should like to mention if I wasn't 'fraid it might offend Mr. Armstrong," said Felix, hesitatingly.
"And what is that, Felix? I will promise not to be offended."
Thus encouraged, Felix ventured to say.
"I have remark that Mr. Holden come often to see you, and you go to see him. His visits always seem to leave you kind o' solemncolly like, and all the world is surprise that you are so condescensious to the basket-man."
"Enough of this," said Armstrong, abruptly and sternly. "You permit too much freedom to your tongue respecting your superiors. Leave the room."
Poor Felix, aghast at the sudden change in the manner of his master, precipitately retired, casting back a grieved look, and ejaculating under his breath, as he closed the door, "Good Lord!"
"What is the matter with me?" said Armstrong, presently to himself, upon being left alone. "I invite this poor fellow, whose only fault is that he loves me too much, to speak freely, and then treat him harshly for his unintentional impertinence, assuming an importance that belongs to no one, and as if we were not worms creeping together towards the edge of that precipice from which we must fall into eternity. Whence springs my conduct but from pride, self-will, selfishness? I would arrogate a superiority over this poor negro. Poor negro! There spoke the pride of your heart, James Armstrong! But well is he called Felix in comparison with you. Happy in being born of a despised and persecuted race; happy in being condemned to the life of a servant, to an ignorance that diminishes responsibility; happy in receiving no good thing here. Strut about, James Armstrong, in purple and fine linen, but know that for all these things, God will assuredly call thee to judgment."
That whole day Armstrong seemed debating some question with himself. He paid less than even his usual attention to what was passing around, and more than once was spoken to without heeding the address. In the afternoon, he started off by himself, saying he might not return until evening. Felix, whose anxiety the rebuff in the morning had strengthened and confirmed, watched his master as he left the house, and would have followed to guard him against a danger, the approach of which he instinctively felt, but which he could not see, unless Faith, to whom he thought proper to communicate his intention, had forbidden him. She found it difficult to prevent him, so greatly were the fears of the black excited, on whose mind the motives of delicacy that induced Faith to desire to guard the movements of her father from observation, cannot be supposed to have exerted so much force. Much doubting and questioning the wisdom of the young lady, yet not venturing to disobey her, Felix blamed himself for making her acquainted with his design.
"This child head," he said, apostrophizing himself, "ain't no better than a squash. What made me tell Miss Faith what I were going to do?"
After Armstrong left the house, he continued in the street only a little way, soon striking across the fields and thus greatly abridging the distance he must have passed over had he pursued the high road. The truth is, he was directing his steps towards the very spot he had visited with Judge Bernard. He reached it, notwithstanding he was afoot, in much less time than the drive had taken, so rapidly did he walk when out of sight, and so much was the length of the way shortened. Upon arriving at the place, he sat down upon the same log which had been his former seat, and folding his arms sunk into a reverie. After the space of an hour, perhaps, thus passed, he rose and commenced piling up near the brook some pieces of wood which he took from the heaps about him, making another, differing from them principally in being smaller. As he crossed the sticks laid regularly at right angles upon each other, he filled up the intervals with the loose leaves and dry brush lying around. In this way he proceeded until he had raised a cube, perhaps six feet long, four wide, and four high.
During the whole time the work was progressing he seemed to be contending with violent emotions and driven along by some power he vainly tried to resist. Terror, awe, and repugnance were all portrayed upon his countenance. But still the work went on. When it was finished he stood off a few steps, and then, as in a sudden frenzy, rushed at, and seizing upon the several sticks of wood, hurled them in every direction around until the whole pile was demolished. Neglecting his hat that lay upon the ground, he then ran with a wild cry, and at the top of his speed, bounding, like a wild animal, over the brush and trunks of trees, as if in haste to remove himself from a dreadful object, until he reached the woods, when falling upon his face, he lay quite still. After a time he appeared seized with a hysterical passion; he pressed his hand on his side as if in pain, and heavy sobs burst at irregular intervals from his bosom. These finally passed away, and he sat up comparatively composed. A struggle was still going on, for several times he got up and walked a short distance and returned and threw himself down on the ground as before. At length, indistinctly muttering, unheeding the blazing sun that scorched his unprotected head, and lingering as though unwilling to advance, he returned to the scene of his former labors. And now, as if unwilling to trust himself with any delay, lest his resolution might falter, he proceeded, with a sort of feverish impatience, to reconstruct the pile. Shortly, the pieces were laid symmetrically upon each other as before, and the dead leaves and brush disposed in the intervals. After all was done, Armstrong leaned over and bowed his head in an attitude of supplication. When he raised it the eyes were tearless, and his pale face wore an aspect of settled despair. Resuming the hat, that until now had lain neglected in the leaves, he went to the brook and washed his hands in the running water.
"Could man wash out the sins of his soul," he said, "as I wash these stains from my hands! But water, though it may cleanse outer pollution, cannot reach the inner sin. Blood, blood only, can do that. Why was it that this dreadful law was imposed upon our race? But I will not dwell on this. I have interrogated the universe and God, and entreated them to disclose the awful secret, but in vain. My heart and brain are burnt to ashes in the attempt to decipher the mystery. I will strive no more. It is a provocation to faith. I dare not trust to reason. There is something above reason. I submit. Dreadful, unfathomable mystery, I submit, and accept thee with all the consequences at which the quivering flesh recoils."
Upon the return of Armstrong, all traces of violent emotion had disappeared, and given place to exhaustion and lassitude. Faith had, by this time, become so accustomed to the variable humors of her father, that, however much they pained her, she was no longer alarmed by them as formerly. It was her habit, whenever he was attacked by his malady, to endeavor to divert his attention from melancholy thoughts to others of a more cheerful character. And now, on this day, so fraught with horrors of which she was ignorant, although the silence of the unhappy man interrupted by fits of starting, and inquiries of the time o'clock, revealed to her that he was suffering to an unusual degree, she attempted the same treatment which, in more than one instance, had seemed to be attended with a beneficial effect. Armstrong was peculiarly sensitive to music, and it was to his love of it that she now trusted to chase away his gloom. When, therefore, in the evening, she had vainly endeavored to engage him in conversation, receiving only monosyllables in return, she advanced to the piano, and inquired if he would not like to hear her sing?
"Sing! my child?" said Armstrong, as if at first not understanding the question; "Oh, yes—let me hear you sing."
Faith opened the piano, and turning over the leaves of a music book, and selecting a sacred melody as best befitting the mood of her father, sung, with much sweetness and expression, the following lines:
How shall I think of Thee, eternal Fountain
Of earthly joys and boundless hopes divine,
Of Thee, whose mercies are beyond recounting,
To whom unnumbered worlds in praises shine?
I see thy beauty in the dewy morning,
And in the purple sunset's changing dyes;
Thee I behold the rainbow's arch adorning;
Thee in the starry glories of the skies.
The modest flower, low in the green grass blushing,
The wondrous wisdom of the honey bee,
The birds' clear joy in streams of music gushing,
In sweet and varied language tell of Thee.
All things are with Thy loving presence glowing,
The worm as well as the bright, blazing star;
Out of Thine infinite perfection flowing,
For Thine own bliss and their delight THEY ARE.
But chiefly in the pure and trusting spirit,
Is Thy choice dwelling-place, Thy brightest throne.
The soul that loves shall all of good inherit,
For Thou, O God of love art all its own.
Upon Thine altar I would lay all feeling,
Subdued and hallowed to Thy perfect will,
Accept these tears, a thankful heart revealing,
A heart that hopes, that trembles, and is still.
At the commencement of the hymn, Armstrong paid but little attention, but as the sweet stream of melody flowed on from lips on which he had ever hung with delight, and in the tones of that soft, beloved voice, it gradually insinuated itself through his whole being, as it were into the innermost chambers of his soul. He raised the dejected eyes, and they dwelt on Faith's face with a sort of loving eagerness, as if he were seeking to appropriate some of the heavenly emotion that to his imagination, more and more excited, began to assume the appearance of a celestial halo around her head. But it is not necessary to assume the existence of insanity to account for such an impression. If there be anything which awakens reminiscences of a divine origin, it is from the lips of innocence and beauty, to listen to the pure heart pouring itself out in tones like voices dropping from the sky. The sweetness, the full perfection of the notes are not sufficient to account for the effect. No instrument made by human hands is adequate to it. There is something more, something lying behind, sustaining and floating through the sounds. Is it the sympathy of the heavenly for the earthly; the tender lamentation not unmixed with hope; the sigh of the attendant angel?
Upon the conclusion of the piece, Faith rose and took a seat by her father.
"Shall I sing more, father?" she inquired.
"No, my darling," answered Armstrong, taking her hand into his. "Dearly as I love to hear you, and although it may be the last time, I would rather have you nearer me, and hear you speak in your own language; it is sweeter than the words of any poet. Faith, do you believe I love you?"
"Father! father!" cried she, embracing him, "how can you ask so cruel a question? I know that you love me as much as father ever loved a daughter."
"Promise me that nothing shall ever deprive you of a full confidence in my affection."
"I should be most wretched, could I think it possible."
"But suppose I should kill you this instant?"
"Dear father, this is horrid! You are incapable of entertaining a thought of evil towards me."
"You are right, Faith, but only suppose it."
"I cannot have such a thought of my own father! It is impossible. I would sooner die than admit it into my mind."
"I am satisfied. Under no circumstances can you conceive a thought of evil of me. But this is a strange world, and the strangest things happen in it. I speak in this way because I do not know what may come to pass next. I have always loved my fellow-men, and desired their good opinion, and the idea of forfeiting it, either through my own fault or theirs, is painful to me. But men judge so absurdly! They look only at the outside. They are so easily deceived by appearances! Do you know, that of late I have thought there was a great deal of confusion in the ordinary way of men's thinking? But I see clearly the cause of the errors into which they are perpetually falling. All the discord arises from having wills of their own. Do you not think so?"
"Religion teaches, father, that our wills are sources of unhappiness only when opposed to the Divine will."
"I knew you would agree with me. And then think of the folly of it. The resistance must be ineffectual. That is a sweet song you sung, but it seems to me the theology of it is not altogether correct. It celebrates only the love of God, and is, therefore, partial and one-sided. He is also a consuming fire."
"A consuming fire to destroy what is evil."
"I hope it is so. But do you know that I have been a good deal troubled lest there might be truth in the doctrine, that Necessity, an iron Necessity, you understand, might control God himself?"
"Why will you distress yourself with these strange speculations, father? There are some things, it was intended, we should not know."
"Why," continued Armstrong, "it is an opinion that has been entertained for thousands of years, and by the wisest men. The old philosophers believed in it, and I do not know how otherwise to explain the destiny of the elect and reprobate. For you see, Faith, that if God could make all men happy, he would. But he does not."
"I think we ought not to engage our minds in such thoughts," said Faith. "They cannot make us wiser or better, or comfort us in affliction, or strengthen us for duty."
"They are very interesting. I have spent days thinking them over. But if the subject is unpleasant we will choose another. I think you look wonderfully like your mother to-night. I almost seem to see her again. It was very curious how Mr. Holden discovered your likeness to her."
"I was quite startled," said his daughter, glad to find her father's mind directed to something else. "I wonder if he could have seen my mother."
He explained the way in which he found it out. "Was it not ingenious?
No one else would have thought of it. He has a very subtle intellect."
"I was not quite satisfied," said Faith. "His explanation seemed far fetched, and intended for concealment. I think he must have seen my mother."
"If that is your opinion, I will inquire into it. But I do not wish to speak of Holden. You have been to me, Faith, a source of great happiness, and when you are gone, I know I shall not live long."
"We shall live many happy years yet, dear father, and when our time comes to depart, we will thank God for the happiness we have enjoyed, and look forward to greater."
"Your time is at the door, my daughter," said Armstrong, solemnly.
"I know that at any moment I may be called, but that does not affect my happiness, or diminish my confidence, that all is well according to the counsel of His will."
"I see thee in the shining raiment of the blessed! I behold thee in the celestial city!" exclaimed Armstrong.
It was later than usual when the father and daughter separated that night. It seemed as if he were unwilling to allow her to depart, detaining her by caresses when she made suggestions of the lateness of the hour, and assenting only when the clock warned that midnight was passed. Then it was he said:
"I do wrong to keep you up so long, Faith. You should be bright and well for an excursion I intend to take with you to-morrow. You will go with me, will you not?"
"I shall be delighted. The clear sky," she added, walking to the window, "promises a fine day."
"Upon how many new-made graves will to-morrow's sun shine? I wish mine was one of them"
"O, do not say so. You will break my heart."
"Not willingly. O! I do not pain you willingly. You were not born to suffer much pain. Living or dying, you will be a pure offering to your Maker, my daughter."
"Father, how strangely you talk! You are ill."
"As well as I shall be in this life. But do not be troubled. To-morrow will make a change."
He was near the door when he uttered the last words; and now, as if not daring to trust himself in a longer conversation, he hastily opened it, and proceeded to his chamber. Faith followed his example, pondering sadly over the conversation. It did not escape her, that it was more incoherent than usual, but she had seen persons before under great religious distress of mind, whose peace was afterwards restored, and she doubted not that, in like manner, her father's doubts would be solved, and his spirit calmed. With, her heart full of him, and her last thought a petition on his behalf, she fell asleep.