See winter comes to rule the varied year,
Sullen and sad with all his rising train
Vapors and clouds and storms.
THOMSON’S SEASONS.

The charming poet depicted truthfully, doubtless, as well as poetically, the English winter, but such is not the character of the season in New England. Clouds and storms, indeed, herald his advent and attend his march; capricious too his humor; but he is neither “sullen” nor “sad.” No brighter skies than his, whether the sun with rays of mitigated warmth but of intenser light, sparkles o’er boundless fields of snow, or whether the moon, a faded sun, leading her festal train of stars, listens to the merry sleigh-bells and the laugh of girls and boys, ever glorified a land. What though sometimes his trumpet sounds tremendous and frowns o’erspread his face! Transient is his anger, and even then from his white beard he shakes a blessing, to protect with fleecy covering the little seeds in hope entrusted to the earth, and to contribute to the mirth and sports of man.

A few days have passed since the occurrences last detailed. The weather had gradually become colder; the ground was as hard as a stone; there had been a heavy fall of snow, and the streets were musical with bells. The snow had fallen before the intense cold commenced, so that the glassy surface of the ice that bridged the rivers and lakes was undimmed, and presented unusual attractions to the skaters.

It was on the afternoon of a fine day that the smooth Severn, hardened into diamond, was covered, just where the Yaupaae and the Wootuppocut unite, to give it form and an independent being, with a gay throng of the people of the village of both sexes. They were mostly young persons, consisting principally of boys from school (for it was Saturday afternoon) with their sisters. Besides these were some young men and women, with here and there one more advanced in years.

It was a scene of gaiety and exuberant enjoyment. The children let loose from school, where they had been confined all the week, put no bounds to the loud and hilarious expression of their delight, which the seniors showed no disposition to check remembering they once were children and the banks of the stream rung with shouts and answering cries and laughter. Here, flying round in graceful curves, a dexterous skater cut his name in the ice; there, bands of noisy boys were playing tag, and on the ringing steel pursuing the chase; while every once in a while down would tumble some lubberly urchin, or unskillful performer, or new beginner, coming into harder contact with the frozen element than was pleasant, and seeing stars in the daytime, while bursts of laughter and ironical invitations to try it again, greeted his misfortune. In another place were girls on small sleighs or sleds, capable of holding two or three, whirled along by half-a-dozen skaters with great rapidity; while, holding on to handkerchiefs, were others drawn upon their feet at less hazardous speed. Dispersed among the crowd were little boys with flat, tin boxes suspended by a strap from their necks, containing molasses candy, whose brittle sweetness appeared to possess great attraction. All was fun and jest, and laugh and merriment.

Among others, allured by the beauty of the day, which though clear was not so cold as to be uncomfortable, to witness the sports, were Faith Armstrong and Anne Bernard, escorted by Pownal and young Bernard. The cheeks of the ladies were crimsoned by the wholesome cold, and their eyes shone with a brighter lustre than usual, and many were the looks of envy or of admiration cast upon them as they passed, greeting their acquaintances and joining in the revel.

At the time when the little party arrived there happened to be a circle gathered around one of the most accomplished performers to witness an exhibition of his skill, and surely nothing could be more graceful. Without sensible effort, and as if by mere volition, he seemed to glide over the glossy surface, now forwards, now backwards, now sideways, now swiftly, now slowly, whirling like an eagle in rapid or dilatory curves, describing all the lines that Euclid ever drew or imagined, and cutting such initials of the names of the spectators as were desired. The performance, though hailed with very general expressions of admiration, did not seem to give universal satisfaction.

“He does pretty well,” said an elderly man, with a woollen scarf or muffler about his neck and a fox-skin cap on his head, “He does it pretty well; but, Captain, did you ever see Sam Allen?”

“You mean,” answered the person addressed, who was a man of about the same number of years, “Allen who married old Peter’s daughter, and afterwards run away. Yes; it didn’t go with him as slick with her as on the ice.”

“Well, she didn’t break her heart about it. She got married agin as soon as the law allowed. I was in court when Judge Trumbull granted the divorce. ’Twas for three years willful desartion and total neglect of duty.”

“No, I guess she didn’t. She was published the very next Lord’s Day, and got married in the evening. She was a mighty pretty cretur. Well, I never see such a skater as Sam. This fellow is nothing at all to him. He don’t kind o’ turn his letters so nice. Now, there’s that v, you might mistake it for a w. I like to see a man parfect in his business.”

“I’ve hearn tell,” said the Captain, “though I never see it myself, that Sam could write Jarman text as well as Roman.”

“I never see it,” said the Fox-skin cap, “but guess it’s so. There wasn’t nothing Sam couldn’t do on skates.”

“Do you recollect whether he used smooth irons or hollow?” inquired the Captain.

“Oh, smooth; they ain’t so easy for beginners, but when a fellow gits the knack of ’em they’re a great deal better.”

Very different from the remarks of these laudatores temporis acti, were those of the rising generation.

“How beautiful!” exclaimed Anne. “What wonderful skill! Can anything be more graceful?”

“It is, indeed, graceful,” said Faith; “and it must require considerable boldness as well as skill to venture on some of those evolutions. The least mistake would cause a violent fall.”

“Dear Faith, why did you mention it?” said Anne. “I was not thinking of the possibility of falls.”

“Have no fear,” said Pownal; “he is too completely master of the science to hurt himself.”

“In Holland the ladies are said to skate as well as the gentlemen,” said Bernard.

“That is a poor compliment, William,” said Anne. “If I cannot skate better without practice, than half of this awkward squad, I will never bind skates on my feet a second time.”

“I know of nothing you cannot do,” said her brother.

“Come here, Andrew,” cried Pownal, to a boy standing opposite in the circle, and holding a pair of skates in his hand. “Come here and lend me your skates. Here, Miss Bernard,” said he, presenting them to her, “here is a fine pair. Allow me to buckle them on. And then like a winged Mercury to fly.”

“Please to compare me to no heathen gods, Mr. Pownal, or you may make these old Puritans burn me for a witch. Let me see if they fit. No, they are too large, I could never do myself justice on them. Here, my little fellow is a ninepence for you; away with you.”

The boy took the little piece of silver with a grin, tied the rejected skates upon his feet, and was soon lost among his companions.

“I say,” said an urchin, who was looking on with admiring eyes, “I say, Bill, that beats all natur. Did you ever see such shindys?”

“They ain’t so bad,” returned Bill; “but I guess I can do some of ’em myself.”

“Which ones?” inquired the other.

“Why,” answered Bill, “when he throws himself right about face, and then goes sculling backwards.”

“I’ll bet you can’t do it the first time.”

“What will you bet?” cried Bill.

“I don’t care; say a stick o’ candy.”

“Agreed!” cried Bill. “You see I’ve done it afore.”

“You ought to told us that,” said his companion.

“A bet’s a bet,” said Bill. “You don’t want to back out, do ye?”

“Go ahead,” cried the other, with some spirit. “I’ll risk it. Let’s see what you can do.”

Thus exhorted and defied, Bill commenced preparations. He first stooped down on one knee and then on the other, and tightened the straps of the skates; next he took a handkerchief from his pocket, and fastened it tightly around his waist, and lastly, moved slowly about as if to determine whether all things were as they should be.

The spectators who had overheard the conversation between the boys, and were ready for any kind of fun, now began to express interest in the trial, and various were the words of encouragement addressed to Bill, as well as the mutterings of doubt over the result. The skater who, until now, had attracted the most attention, ceased his diagrams and approached Bill, in order to give him instructions, notwithstanding the remonstrances of his companion, who loudly vociferated it wasn’t fair.

“Hold your yaup,” cried another boy, standing by; “if you don’t like your bet, Hen Billings, I’ll take it off your hands.”

But little Billings seemed to think he had made a good bet, and although loth to concede to Bill any advantage that did not of strict right belong to him, was far from being disposed to relinquish it. “Go your length, Bill,” he said, “I ain’t afeard of the expense.”

The space being now cleared, Bill began to circle round preparatory to the trial. It was evident he was not very skillful, and the opinion of the bystanders, who amused themselves with criticising his preliminary performances, was about equally divided respecting his ability to perform the undertaking. After a few turns Bill cried out:

“Now, Hen, look out.” With that he darted forward, until he supposed he had attained the required momentum, when suddenly making a twisting motion with his feet, he threw himself round. But unfortunately he had made some miscalculation or slip, for instead of alighting square upon the skates, his heels flew up, and with a tremendous thump, down came poor Bill upon his back.

“Hurrah!” cried Hen Billings; “there you go, candy and all. I hope you ain’t hurt you,” he said, good naturedly. “I’d rather lose my bet than have you hurt.”

“No,” whined Bill, squirming round his body, and rubbing the back of his head, “not much. What are you grinning at, you monkey? Did you never see a man fall before?” cried he, shaking his fist at another boy, whose face it seems did not wear an expression of condolence to suit him. “I vow if I don’t try that again,” he added, after having recovered a little from the effects of his fall.

Thereupon space being again allowed, Bill, with genuine pluck, tried the experiment once more, and this time with better fortune. His success was greeted with shouts of congratulation, and with expressions of “true grit,” “stuffy little fellow,” &c., and he presently disappeared with his friend, Hen, in search of the candy-merchant.

Faith and Anne, with the two young men, had witnessed the whole scene with some interest, and the different manner in which the girls were affected was characteristic. Faith betrayed a lively sensibility when the boy fell, and was hardly restrained from condoling with him; while Anne took but little notice of it, but exhibited exquisite delight at his courage and final success. But something else now attracted their attention. A shout was raised, and exclamations were heard of “There comes the ice-boat; there comes Grant’s ice-boat.”

Turning round, they beheld what had the appearance of a boat under sail, flying round the promontory of Okommakemisit. A slight breeze was drawing up the stream, and before its favoring breath, the little vessel, or whatever else it might be called, advanced with great rapidity. In a few moments it had reached them, and with a sharp grating sound as of iron cutting into ice, came suddenly to a stop, and the persons gathering round had an opportunity to examine it. It was the work of a village genius, and consisted of some boards, cut in an elliptical form (as, perhaps, the most convenient), supported by two pieces of iron, parallel to each other, to which the boards were fastened, and running the whole length from bow to stern. In the forward part was rigged a mast, to which was attached a sail, like the mainsail of a sloop, and the whole was controlled by a piece of sharp iron, fixed on the stern in such a manner as to turn like a rudder, and to cut with any required degree of pressure, by means of a lever, into the ice. With this simple regulator it was made perfectly safe, being stopped as readily, and on the same principle, as a skater arrests his course.

Grant, to whom Pownal and Bernard were both known, invited the little party to take a sail with him, assuring them there was no danger. The invitation was at once accepted by Miss Bernard, though the more timid Faith hesitated, and the four took their seats. The group of persons, as before observed, were at the head of the Severn, and the wind was drawing up the river, it was, therefore, necessary, to beat against the wind at starting. To the surprise, in particular of the ladies, this was done with the most perfect ease, the vessel, on her sharp runners, making but little lee-way, and obeying her helm more readily than any boat in water. Indeed, obedience was instantaneous. She whirled round as quickly as one could turn one’s hand, requiring promptness and presence of mind in the steersman. Thus, like a bird, with smooth and equable motion, she flew with her delighted passengers, in many a zig-zag, down the Severn, until they had gone as far as desired, when round she spun, and before the breeze, houses, and men, and trees, gliding by as in a race, dashed up to the starting point.

Upon leaving the ice-boat, the eyes of Pownal discovered the tall form of Holden, in the midst of a group of persons whom he appeared to be addressing; and upon his mentioning the circumstance to the others, it was proposed to join him. Accordingly, they added themselves to his audience. Several large baskets were lying near him on the ice, and so engaged was he in his subject that he took no notice of the approach of his four young friends. The address was not without a burst or two of eloquence, springing out of the intense conviction of the speaker, and was listened to respectfully enough. Not that a convert was made; not that there was a person present who did not regard his notions as the hallucinations of a disturbed intellect, but a part of the bystanders esteemed and respected him as a man of noble and generous disposition, lavish of his small means towards those whom he considered poorer than himself, and never faltering in any act of kindness on account of hardship or privation; while the rest, as already intimated, felt a sort of awe in his presence from the mystery that surrounded him. Among the spectators was our old friend, Tom Gladding, leisurely engaged in whittling out a chain from a pine block, some twelve inches in length, from which he had succeeded in obtaining three or four links that dangled at its end, and listening with a comical expression, as if he were anticipating some fun.

The Enthusiast had hardly concluded his exhortation before Basset, who stood on the outside of the ring during its delivery, stepped forward, and placing his hand on Holden’s shoulder, informed him he was his prisoner. Holden made no resistance, but drawing himself up to his full height, and fastening his eyes sternly on the constable, he demanded:

“What art thou?”

“My name is Barnabas Basset,” answered the constable, a little embarrassed.

“I care not for thy name,” said Holden, “but by what authority darest thou to lay thy hand on a free man?”

“By authority of the State of Connecticut,” replied the constable, recovering from his momentary confusion, and feeling quite safe in the crowd. “It’s true, I hain’t got my staff, but everybody’s bound, according to law, to know the constable.”

“And, therefore, is an innocent man to be treated as a malefactor?”

“I don’t know about the innocence,” said Basset, “and it’s none of my business. You must talk to the justice about that. All I’ve got to do is to execute my warrant according to law.”

“It is written, resist not evil,” said Holden, musingly. “Behold, I am in thy hands; do with me what thou willest.”

But some of the spectators appeared indisposed to be so passive. Pownal and Bernard walked up to the constable, and demanded to know the meaning of the outrage.

“You may just call it what you please, Mr. Pownal,” answered Basset, indignant at being interfered with, as he called it, in the discharge of his duty, “and I advise you not to git your fingers catched in the law; but if you must know, the justice, I guess, will tell you.”

“Keep your advice until it is asked for,” said Pownal; “but before what justice are you taking him?”

“If you come with us, you’ll find out,” answered Basset, whose ill nature seemed to increase.

“That I certainly will. I must leave you,” said Pownal, turning to the ladies, “to see that this brutal fellow behaves himself.”

“Do,” cried Faith; “do not let them insult him.”

“Let us go with him,” said the impulsive Anne.

“You would make a fine appearance in a justice court,” said her brother “No, I will see you home, and afterwards join Pownal.”

But an occurrence now happened which made any such arrangement unnecessary. Tom Gladding, who all this while had been quietly whittling out his chain and listening to the conversation, here interposed:

“Basset,” he said, “you hain’t showed your warrant.”

“It’s all safe enough,” cried the constable, striking his hand on his pocket.

“Well, if that’s the case you’re safe enough, too,” said Tom, as if not disposed to press an inquiry.

But the hint had answered its purpose, and several voices demanded the exhibition of the warrant, to which the constable replied, that it was none of their business; he knew what he was about.

Contrary, however, to what might have been expected from his former submission, the prisoner required to see the written authority by which he was to be consigned to bonds, and refused to move until it had been shown, in which determination he was sustained by the bystanders. Thus unexpectedly resisted, the constable had no alternative but to release Holden or produce the instrument. He, therefore, put his hand into his pocket, and pulling out a number of papers, sought for the document. It was in vain; no warrant was to be found; and, after repeatedly shuffling the papers, he exclaimed: “I declare I must have lost it.”

Whether he discovered the loss then for the first time, or what is far more probable, did not anticipate its demand from one so flighty as Holden, and meant to procure one afterwards, is not certainly known, but the fact is certain, he had no written authority to arrest.

“You never had one. Is this the way you treat a free American? You desarve a ducking; you had better make tracks,” exclaimed several indignant voices from the crowd, with whom a constable cannot be a popular character.

“It’s my opinion,” said the man in the fox skin cap, “Basset has made himself liable for assault and battery. What do you think, Captain?”

“I ain’t clear on that point,” returned his cautious companion, “but free trade and sailors’ rights, I say, and I’ve no notion of a man’s being took without law. I’m clear so far.”

The discomfited constable not venturing to proceed, and, indeed, unable to conceive how, without Holden’s assent, he could take him before the justice, now relinquished his prey, and endeavored to make his way out of the circle. Hereupon an agitation arose, none could say how, the persons composing it began to be swayed backwards and forwards in a strange manner, and somehow or other poor Basset’s heels got tripped up, and before he could rise, several men and boys fell over him and crushed him with their weight, so that when he became visible in the heap, he presented a most pitiable appearance. His coat was torn, his neckerchief twisted so tight about his neck, that he was half choked, and his hat jammed out of all shape. It is doubtful whether he would have escaped so cheaply, had it not been for Gladding, who, after he thought Basset had suffered sufficiently, came to his assistance.

“I always stand by the law,” said Tom, helping him to his feet, “but I admire your imprudence, Basset, in trying to take up a man without a warrant.”

Basset’s faculties were too confused to enter into a discussion of the subject then, and with many threats of taking the law against his tormentors, and, attended by Tom, he limped off the ice.

Loud and boisterous were the congratulations with which the crowd had greeted Holden on his escape from the clutches of the constable, but he waved them off with a dignity which repressed their advances, and gave some offence.

“If I’d known the old fellow was so proud,” said one, “I guess Basset might have taken him for all I cared.”

“I sort o’ sprained my wrist in that last jam agin the constable,” said another, laughing, “and it’s een about as good as thrown away.”

“Perhaps,” cried a third, “when he’s took agin, I’ll be there to help, and perhaps I won’t.”

While these various speeches were being made, the young men with the ladies, had gathered around Holden, and were expressing their mortification at the annoyance he had experienced, and their pleasure at his escape.

“Why do the heathen rage, and the people imagine a vain thing?” cried the enthusiast. “Surely their devices shall be brought to naught, and their counsels to no effect. He that sitteth on the circle of the heavens shall laugh them to scorn, and spurn them in His displeasure. Because for Thy sake, I have borne reproach; shame hath covered my face. I am become a stranger unto my brethren, and an alien unto my mother’s children.”

He waited for no remark; he looked at no one; but taking up the pile of baskets which were tied together, threw them upon his back, and stalked over the ice in the direction of his cabin.

On their way home the young people discussed the events of the afternoon, dwelling on the meeting with Holden as on that which most occupied their minds.

“It is with a painful interest,” said Pownal, “that I meet the old man, nor can I think of him without a feeling of more than common regard. I am sure it is not merely because he was lately of so great service to me, that I cannot listen to the tones of his voice without emotion. There is in them a wild melancholy, like the sighing of the wind through pine trees, that affects me more than I can describe.”

“I know the feeling,” said Faith. “There is to me also a strange pathos in his voice that brings the tears sometimes into my eyes before I am aware. What is the cause, I do not know. I never heard it spoken of till now, and did not suppose there was another affected like myself.”

“You are a couple of romantic, silly things,” cried Anne. “I flatter myself there is some poetry in me, but it takes a different shape. Now, when I see Father Holden, I begin to think of Jeremiah and Zachariah, and all the old prophets, but with no disposition to cry.”

“Tears were never meant to dim those blue eyes, dear Anne,” said Faith.