He was a man

Whom no one could have passed without remark,
Active and nervous was his gait; his limbs
And his whole figure breathed intelligence.
Time had compressed the freshness of his cheek
Into a narrow circle of deep red,
But had not tamed his eye; that under brows,
Shaggy and grey, had meanings which it brought
From years of youth.

WORDSWORTH’S EXCURSION.

There were certain seasons of the year when the malady of the Solitary assumed a more serious character than at others. From what circumstance this proceeded was unknown. It might arise from an association of ideas, connected in some manner with the events of his life, the particulars of which, although curious persons had, at various times, endeavored to draw them from him, he had never revealed more plainly than in the conversations with Ohquamehud and the doctor. The imagination was left to wander, therefore, among whatever speculations respecting him it chose to indulge in, and, accordingly, there was no hypothesis that could be started, however absurd, that did not find advocates.

By some, he was supposed to be a murderer, whom remorse had driven from the haunts of men, and who was endeavoring to expiate his crimes by self-denial and suffering; others, asserted that he was the Wandering Jew, though his long residence at the island militated a little with the idea: however, that was balanced by his marked reverence for the New Testament, and frequent references to the coming of the Son of Man; while others insisted he was a pirate, who had buried treasure on the lonely island, and there watched over its security. This last opinion was received with especial favor by the gaping vulgar, and further confirmed by the fact that the Solitary never asked alms or was destitute of money, of which, indeed, he gave away to those whom he considered poorer than himself. But whatever was the truth, or however anxious the good people of Hillsdale might be to discover the secret, no one ventured to meddle with him, though more than one old woman had hinted that it was a shame he should be allowed to run about with so long a beard, and a resolute fellow even once suggested the expediency of arresting him on suspicion. As, however, his life was perfectly harmless, and he had never been, nor seemed likely to become, a burden to the town, nor had committed any act of violence, such counsels were considered too harsh, especially as the attempt to execute them might involve the town in expense and other unpleasant consequences. Besides, it was known he had strong friends in influential families, who would not permit him to be wronged or quietly see the least of his rights invaded. The curiosity of the place, therefore, was obliged to content itself with surmises, and to wait until some more favorable period for its gratification.

The time of the year had now arrived when Holden was wont to show himself more than usually restless and excitable. He had been wandering one day since early in the morning, shooting partridges and squirrels, until late in the afternoon he found himself at the Falls of the Yaupaae. This was for him a favorite place of resort, and here, stretched on the ground, he would lie for hours, with his eyes fastened on the foaming water, listening to the cataract’s roar, as if it soothed his humor. Holden threw himself on the moss that exuberantly covers the rocks, and essayed the spell. But this time, in vain. He lay but a moment, when, starting up, he seized the rifle he had laid aside, and making a considerable detour, in order to reach a small bridge higher up the stream, he crossed it, and pursued his way to the village.

Holden, notwithstanding he had lived so long in the vicinity and had often been in the village, never made his appearance without attracting attention. The little boys and girls, and even their elders, seldom passed him without turning to look again. The singularity of his dress, and fine tall person, as straight as his rifle, and a beard, that waved like a prophet’s, on his breast, would have commanded observation anywhere. Joined to this was an air of dignity and gravity that, in spite of the coarseness of his apparel, insured respect. However much the rude and vulgar might feel disposed to insult, they were too much awed by his presence to attempt it. They might speak disrespectfully, indeed, of him in his absence, but before him they were cowed and mute. The mystery, besides, with which their imaginations surrounded him, invested him with a power the greater, perhaps, on account of its indefiniteness. They forgot in gazing at him, that his only means of living they were acquainted with was derived from the sale of the oysters and fish he caught in the river, and of the large baskets he made with his own hands. The meanness of the occupation was lost sight of when they saw his majestic appearance and heard the grand tones of his deep voice.

Holden proceeded down the street, hardly recognizing though such was not his wont the friendly greetings with which he was sainted by many that passed, until he arrived opposite the house of Mr. Armstrong. Here his progress was arrested by a tap on a window, and looking up he saw the bright face of Miss Armstrong, who was beckoning to him. He stopped; the face disappeared to re-appear at the door, and Faith invited him to come in. He hesitated, but the irresolution was only momentary, for instantly he turned and entered the house.

“I doubted,” he said, “whether it were right to inflict the gloom of an old man on one so young. What have age and despondency in common with youth and happiness?”

“But you do not doubt my sympathy? Is there anything I would not do to make you happy, Father Holden?”

“No. I trust in thee as a parent in his child. Thou art as incapable of deception as the heavens of a stain. I have known thee, Faith, since thou wast a child, and thou hast always had an influence over me. As the notes of the youthful harper of Israel scared away the demons from the bosom of Saul, so do the tones of thy voice thrill me like a melody from the past. So tell me of thyself and of all that concerns thee, so far, at least, as thou canst impart thy thoughts and feelings to one like me.”

“The subjects that engage the attention of a young woman can have little interest for you, father.”

“Believe it not. Though my heart be sore, it has not lost all its earlier feelings.”

“I cannot speak of myself,” said Faith. “My life has been too destitute of incident to deserve mention, and it is already known to you.”

“What callest thou life? Is it,” he continued, fixing his eyes on the carpet, and speaking in a low tone, “the few gasps that agitate the bosom here? If that were all, it were of but little more consequence than any other sigh. But this is only the beginning. It is the lighting of the spark that shall blaze a glorious star, or burn a lurid conflagration for ever.” He stopped; he raised his eyes to the face of Faith, whose own were fastened on him, and gazed fondly on her; his features assumed a softened expression; and, as if a new train of thought had driven out the old, he added, “blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God.”

Apparently, these exclamations affected Faith with no surprise. She had probably listened to similar conversations, and simply replied:

“Who shall say his heart is pure?”

“If not thou, then none. Sad thought, that the poisoned tongue of the snake in Eden, should taint even a being so fair as thou.”

“Father,” said Faith, who was desirous of changing a conversation which began to be embarrassing, for to such ejaculations it was impossible to return reasonable answers, “do you love the loneliness, of your island as much as ever? Would it not be more prudent to pass the winter months in the village?”

“Thou art not the only one whose kindness hath asked the question. But, in my youth I learned to love solitude, though it was forced on me in the beginning. The dungeon and the chain introduced me to its acquaintance; yet, such is the kindness of Providence, that, what at first I hated, I afterwards learned to love. Know, too, that I have lived in the boundless forest, until an inhabited street cramps my breast and stifles my breath; nor am I ever less alone than when alone with God. Ask me not, then, though thy intentions be kind, to renounce a mode of life which habit hath made a second nature.”

“Tell me of your adventures.”

“Hold! Wouldst thou hear of a youth blasted by unkindness; of prostrate hopes, and scenes of revenge and horror? Nay, thou knowest not what thou askest.”

“It was not through mere curiosity I made the request. Those who love you would willingly know more, that they may be the better able to promote your welfare.”

“The motive,” said Holden, taking her hand, and holding it an instant, “is kind, my child; but what purpose would it serve? The time will come when the secrets of all hearts shall be revealed: then let the story of my crimes and wrongs be blazoned to the world.”

Faith attached little credence to confessions of crimes which Holden intimated he had committed. Had she done so, she might have felt alarm at being thus alone with him. But his presence, so far from inspiring her with terror, had something unaccountable of attraction. His self-accusation she considered exaggerations of a morbid fancy that converted common errors into unpardonable sins. Hers was a charity that could think no evil, and in her imagination she had long since formed a theory that, to her pure mind, made him an object of deep interest. In Holden she saw a man of superior endowments and breeding his manners and language so far above those of most around her, proved both; who, by undeserved misfortunes had partially lost his reason, and, like the stricken deer, left the herd to die alone. Sometimes she would fill up the picture with scenes from his supposed life, at one time of one character, and at another time of another; but they were merely sports of the Imagination, changing figures of a kaleidoscope which employed without satisfying the mind. Of the truth of her general hypothesis she was quite convinced, nor without hope that her old friend would be restored to society and the position which she considered his due. As children instinctively know those who love them, so must Holden have originally had some idea of the feelings of Faith, and by it been drawn closer to her. Certainly, there was no one in whose society he took more pleasure, or whom he was more desirous to please.

At this stage of the conversation, the door opened, and Mr. Armstrong entered. He advanced to Holden, whose hand he took, and welcomed with much cordiality. It was no new thing for him to see the Recluse in his parlor. His daughter’s partiality he well knew, of course; and although, in his opinion, it was somewhat extraordinary that a young lady should be attracted by Holden, he accounted for the circumstance by ascribing it to the romance in her nature, of which she had no common share.

The contrast was strong betwixt the appearance of the two men. On the one hand, in perfect harmony with the adornment of the handsome parlor, stood the delicate person of Mr. Armstrong, with cropped hair and close-shaven face, in a suit of fine black cloth and muslin cravat of spotless white, representing a refined, perhaps enervated phase of civilization; on the other, the stately and vigorous form of Holden, in a clean but coarse gray frock, girt around the waist with a sash, with long hair falling on his neck, and unshorn beard, looking like one better acquainted with the northern blast than with the comforts of curtains and carpets.

“It is not often, brother Holden,” said Mr. Armstrong, addressing him by an epithet sometimes applied to him, “that I am so fortunate as to meet you in my house.”

“Dost thou speak from the heart, James Armstrong,” replied Holden, “or art thou flattering me with empty conventionalities?”

The melancholy face of Mr. Armstrong looked distressed, but, remembering the wayward humor of the other, he gently answered:

“I am sorry the form of expression displeases you; but I assure you I am glad to see you.”

“Nay,” said Holden, “let me rather beg pardon for my rudeness; and that I fully believe thee, be my presence here the proof. I owe thee many obligations through thy daughter, and there are times when it does me good to be with her. It is then I fancy I hear in her voice the tones of the long lost, and they come not with a wail of sorrow, but like a welcome and an invitation.”

“The lost!” softly said Armstrong, falling insensibly, and as by some mesmeric process, into a corresponding train of feeling, “the lost! how soon drop away from our sides those who made the morning of life so pleasant!”

“Man is born to trouble, as the sparks fly upward,” said Holden. “He cometh from the womb of darkness, and returneth thither again.”

The two men drew their chairs nearer each other. It seemed as if a new community of thought and feeling had been established between them.

“You have suffered,” said Armstrong, “perhaps lost all your dear ones, and, in that, more miserable than I; for, have I not left my Faith? But the hand that inflicted the wound can heal, and I trust the balm has been poured in.”

The countenance of Holden was agitated; his lips trembled, and, in a broken voice, he replied:

“The nearest and dearest are gone. Yet hath God left me some comfort in my affliction. I am not entirely bereft.”

“In the promises of the Holy Scriptures you find consolation. Happy the soul that draws comfort from their sacred pages!”

“I meant not entirely so. But it avails not now to explain. Yet art thou right. I do find in the precious Book my dearest hope. Without it, I were miserable indeed.”

“And it sustains you under every trial and temptation?”

“Assuredly. For that very purpose was it given, that man might not sink under the mystery of existence; that in its pages he should find hope.”

“And you find in it the warrant of your salvation?”

“I strive to work out my salvation, with fear and trembling.”

“There are many who strive to enter, who shall not be able. How may one be assured of safety?”

“There is a justification by faith. Hast thou never tasted of its sweetness?”

“Alas! no,” exclaimed Armstrong. “I have prayed for it, and longed for it in vain. The threatenings of the Gospel and not its promises are mine.”

“Father, dear father, how can you speak so wildly?” cried his daughter, throwing her arms around his neck and kissing his pale cheek.

He looked at her a moment, then putting her away, gently, again addressed Holden:

“Have you no word of comfort for me?”

“Faint not; neither be tired of well-doing,” answered Holden, “and I doubt not that the cloud which now concealeth the divine countenance will depart, and thou shalt attain the peace that passeth understanding.”

“Have you attained it? Do you know what it is to be justified by faith?”

“I have that blessed experience,” cried the enthusiast. “Those whom He called He justified. I am a brand plucked from the burning a monument of abounding mercy.”

“Tell me, then,” exclaimed Armstrong, “what are the signs by which it may be known?” He said this eagerly, and with an air of the intensest interest.

“I feel it,” cried Holden, rising and standing before him, “in the hatred that I bear towards all that conflicts with His will; in the love with which I read His word; in the willingness to suffer all things for the glory of His name, and to be damned for ever, if such be His purpose; I feel it in that, through His grace, I can trample the world under foot, and bear whatever cross His decree imposes; in the struggle and the aspiration to be more like Him, and in that His sovereign grace hath chosen me to reveal unto me His salvation and the knowledge of His speedy coming.”

It is impossible to convey an adequate idea of the manner in which this was spoken. Words cannot describe the voice, or paint the wild gleams of enthusiasm that, like lightning-flashes, coursed each other over the features of Holden, as, without a gesture, and immovable as a rock, an image of undoubting confidence, he delivered himself of this extraordinary speech. Nor, carried away by its impassioned utterance, were either Armstrong or his daughter aware of its full fanaticism. But the impression made upon the two was somewhat diverse, and marked how differently the chords of their minds were tuned. With all her reverence for the Enthusiast, Faith could not hear his wild avowal without pain, notwithstanding it was stamped with all the honesty of conviction, and her own creed taught that such a degree of spiritual elevation might be attained; while her father listened with a sad admiration, not unmixed with self-abasement and almost envy.

After a pause, Armstrong said: “If such are the evidences of justification and a saving faith, then have I had them, too; but why bring they to me no confidence or holy joy? Why is my soul cast down, and why do I feel like one who stumbles towards a pit? Alas! my flesh quivers and my heart trembles at the thought of falling into His hands.”

“It is prayer that opens heaven,” said Holden. “If thou wilt, we will unite our hearts in supplication. Peradventure the Lord may send a blessing.”

A mute assent was the reply from Armstrong; the three knelt down together, and Holden poured out a prayer, into which he concentrated his glowing feelings. He described themselves as covered all over with crimes, like a leprosy; as willful and determined rebels; as not only unworthy of the least of God’s mercies, of the warm sun and refreshing rain, but deserving of the torments of the bottomless pit; but entreated that, devoid of all merit, as they were, and justly exposed to His wrath, their aggravated offences might be pardoned for the sake of One who had taken their burden upon Himself, and that they might be of the number of the elect, whom the foreordination of God had predestined to salvation. He concluded with beseeching that the balm of peace might be poured into his afflicted brother’s heart, that his ears might be opened to hear the truth, and his eyes to see how near was the great and terrible day of the Lord, and that, as in ancient days chosen women were raised up to do mighty works, even so Faith might be made an instrument to proclaim His power abroad.

As the three rose from their knees, a change seemed, during the prayer, to have passed over the little circle. Holden was invested with an authority not felt before. Neither his speech nor dress was as strange as formerly. He had become a teacher to be honored. It was the influence of a mind originally powerful, and which, though shattered, exercised the control of a strong will, guided by an earnest fanaticism.