“Who called you forth from night and utter death,
From dark and icy caverns, called you forth,
Down those precipitous black-jagged rocks,
For ever shattered, and the same for ever?
Who gave you your invulnerable life,
Your strength, your speed, your fury, and your joy,
Unceasing thunder and eternal foam?”

COLERIDGE.

William Bernard had, of late, been more than usually attracted to the society of Faith. In habits of familiar intercourse with the family of the Armstrongs, from his childhood, and admitted to almost the same degree of intimacy which exists between brothers and sisters with the little black-eyed girl whom, in winter, he drew on his sled, with Anne, to school, and, to fill whose apron, he shook chestnuts and walnuts from the trees, in autumn, he and Faith had never had, during the earlier period of their acquaintance, feelings other than those attaching one to another, members of the same household. The fact that Faith had no brother, taken in connection with her love for Anne, had caused her to lean more on William, and be willing to call upon him for a thousand little services, which he was as ready to grant as she to ask. These, in the years of childhood, were rewarded by a kiss, or permission to ride on her rocking-horse, or to make calls, with Anne and herself, on their dolls, and so forth; but as years rolled on, and vague feelings and shadowy intimations assumed definiteness, a delicate veil of reserve imperceptibly interposed itself, as effectual to bar the former familiarity as if a Chinese wall had been built between them. Yet, for years, no warmer sentiment succeeded; and, though William Bernard felt pleasure in the society of his beautiful neighbor, he experienced no uneasiness in her absence.

But a change was destined to take place which, indeed, it is surprising had not sooner occurred. William found himself, he hardly knew how, more frequently in the company of his sister’s lovely friend, notwithstanding it was with a more timid step he sought the dwelling of Mr. Armstrong. For it seemed to him as if the little community were beginning to suspect the existence of those feelings which, like the morning glory, shrink from the rays of the sun. They were too delicate for inspection. They were like the wing of the butterfly or the plumage of the humming-bird, which cannot be handled without being tarnished. Hence, though longing to enter the house as in his school-boy days, were it only to catch for a moment the sounds of Faith’s voice or a glimpse of her face, he would content himself with merely passing by, deriving a satisfaction from the consciousness of being nearer to her, and of gazing on the house beautified by her presence. Besides, as his feelings became more interested, his distrust of himself increased. The heart of the bold, young man, which real danger had never disturbed, fluttered like a caught bird at the voice of Faith, more and more, and he hesitated to make an avowal which might, indeed, crown his hopes, but which might, also, dash them to the ground. For he could not conceal from himself that Faith, so far from giving him encouragement as a lover, had never even appeared to suspect his feelings. Her conduct had always been the same, the same unreserved confidence, the same frank, unconstrained deportment. She spoke to him as freely as ever of her hopes and fears; she took his arm as readily, nor did a blush welcome his coming or a tremor of the voice signalize his departure.

Young ladies are usually sharp-sighted enough in detecting admiration, and fathoming the heart of a lover, and some may think her want of penetration strange. If so, I must entreat indulgence for my simple Faith. Be the circumstances remembered in which she was placed and had grown up; her child-like innocence and purity, unacquainted with the world, her seclusion from society, the intimacy that had always existed between her and young Bernard, which continued to make many attentions that would have been marked in another, natural and expected from him, and the want of all preoccupation in his favor, and the surprise of the keen-sighted will diminish. Is not an inexperienced and modest girl slow to suspect in another, emotions towards herself of a kind which she has never felt?

William Bernard, then, had never told his love, nor did Miss Armstrong dream of its existence. To her he was the dear friend of her childhood, and nothing more. His mother and sister suspected the condition of his heart, and it was with calm satisfaction in the former, and a glow of delight in the latter, that they looked forward to the time when the attentions and amiable qualities of the son and brother should ripen the friendship of the unimpassioned beauty into love. Of this result, with a pardonable partiality they did not doubt. With this explanation of the feelings of the two young people towards each other at this time, we will accompany them on a morning walk to the Falls of the Yaupaae.

It was one of those bright, glorious days which the poet Herrick calls the “bridal of the earth and sky.” From a heaven intensely blue, the sun, without a cloud, “looked like a God” over his dominions. Some rain had fallen in the night, and the weather suddenly clearing up towards morning, had hardened the moisture into ice. Every bush, every tree, the fences, were covered with a shining mail, from which and from the crisped surface of the snow, the rays of the sun were reflected, and filled the air with a sparkling light. Transmuted, as by a magician’s wand, the bare trees were no longer ordinary trees. They were miracles of vegetable silver and crystal. Mingled among them, the evergreens glittered like masses of emerald hung with diamonds. Aladdin, in the enchanted cavern, saw not so brilliant a spectacle.

The narrow road which led to the Falls descended a declivity, where it left the main street until it came to within a few feet of the surface of the river, then curving round the base of the hill, it skirted the winding margin of the stream until it ascended another hill, on the top of which, from a platform of level rock, one of the finest views was commanded. The path was slippery with ice, and in descending the declivity the arm of Bernard was necessary to support the uncertain steps of his companion. It was with a sort of tremor he offered it, of which Faith was all unconscious. She took it without hesitation, and stepping cautiously over the glazed surface, and laughing at each other’s slips, the young couple pursued their walk. On their right was a steep hill, rising in some places to a height of one hundred feet above their heads, covered over, for a considerable distance along the road, with the perennial beauty of the graceful hemlock and savin, now resplendent in jewels; and on the left the Yaupaae, its frozen level hid in snow, out of which the trees and shrubs on the little islands raised their silver armor glittering in the sun. In the distance, and visible from the greater part of the road, the river, in a narrow chasm, dashed down the rocks. An unusual quantity of snow had lately fallen, which, having been succeeded by heavy rains, had swollen the stream to more than double its ordinary size. It was evident that, what in the language of the country is called a freshet was commencing. Such is the name given to those swellings of the water, the most formidable of which commonly occur in the month of February, or early in the Spring, when the overcharged rivers, bursting their boundaries and overflowing the neighboring lowlands, sometimes occasion great damage to property, sweeping away bridges, and mills, and dams, with irresistible violence.

The roaring of the Falls had been long distinguishable, but, it was not until the first curve in the road had been turned, that they came into sight.”

“Look! Faith,” cried Bernard, as they burst into view; “did you ever see them more magnificent?”

The attention of the young lady had been, hitherto, too much engrossed by the necessity of watching her footsteps down the descent, to give much heed to surrounding objects; but, now, she looked up, having reached the comparatively level spot, which extended as far as the second hill or rising ground above mentioned, and felt all the admiration expressed by her companion.

“They are grand,” she replied. “I have beheld this view a thousand times, and never weary of its beauty. I do not know whether I love it more in summer or in winter.”

“How would you express the difference of your feelings, then and now?”

“I am afraid I have not the skill to put the feeling into words. But, the impression, on a day like this, is of a magnificence and splendor unusual to the earth. In summer, the beauty though less astonishing, is of a softer character.”

“You would rather listen to the song of the robin, and of our northern mocking-bird, than to the roaring of the angry river?”

“There is no anger in the sound, William,” she replied, looking up into his face; “It is the shout of praise to its Creator, and the dashing of the torrents over the rocks are the clapping of its hands.”

“You are right, Faith. How much better you are tuned to the meanings of nature than I?”

“You do yourself injustice. It was your love of all this beauty that induced you to invite me to this walk. Without you I should have missed it, nor known what I had lost.”

William Bernard sighed. She has not, he thought, the least suspicion that I love her. She does not know, and would not care if she did, that, by her side, the only prospect I behold is herself, and the invitation to this stroll but a pretext to approach her.

“Your presence, dear Faith,” said he, “imparts a double charm to the scenery.”

“It is sweet,” she answered, leaning, as it seemed to him, at the moment, more affectionately on his arm, “to have one to whom we can say, how lovely is all this loveliness.”

“The sentiment of the Poet never seemed so true before,” said Bernard, looking at her with admiration.

She made no reply, for her whole soul was absorbed by the view before her.

They had arrived at the platform, which, somewhat higher than the Fall, commands a prospect of the river and surrounding country. Below them foamed and thundered the torrent, which, first, making a leap some twenty feet down, over large, irregularly-shaped boulders of granite, that strove to oppose its passage, rushed in a steep descent over a bed of solid stone, irregularly worn by the action of the water; and, then, contracting itself between its adamantine walls, burst in distracted fury, like a maniac, from the narrow throat. Against the opposing rocks, which, perhaps, had fallen into the Yaupaae, when the fierce convulsion of nature opened the chasm, and bade the river pour down the gorge the water lashed with ceaseless rage, throwing the spray high into the air. This, freezing as it fell, encrusted the rough sides of the beetling crags with icy layers, covering them all over with plates like silver, and hanging them with stalactites. Right in front, and separated only by the narrow pass from the ledge on which they stood, still higher than which it rose, towered a huge rock, perpendicularly, to a height of ninety or one hundred feet above the cataract. Its foam-beaten base, just above the water, was encased in icy incrustations, higher up, gray moss overspread its flat side, and tufts of cedar struggled through the fissures, whilst its top was canopied with hemlocks and savins, and white oaks. Looking towards the left, the eye swept over the green hill-side, along which they had walked, and, glancing over the islands in the Yaupaae, followed the winding coarse of the river, catching here and there on ground, that sloped to the stream, the sight of white buildings, with green blinds, till the surrounding hills shut in the view.

They both stood silent, as they looked, she, unwilling, by an exclamation, to break the charm; and he, with his mind full of the lovely creature before him. Surely, never so angelic a being gazed upon that scene! As, with kindling countenance and suspended breath, her dark eyes flashing with enthusiasm, her soul drank in the sublimity and sparkling radiance that enveloped her, she seemed no being of mortal mould, but some celestial visitant. The rapt expression of her face gradually settled into awe, and she softly murmured these lines, of the Russian poet, Derzhavin

“God! thus to Thee my lowly thoughts can soar,
Thus seek thy presence, Being wise and good,
’Midst Thy vast works, admire, obey, adore;
And when the tongue is eloquent no more,
The soul shall speak in tears of gratitude.”

The tears were indeed standing in her eyes, as she turned and placed her hand in that of Bernard.

“You must think it strange,” she said, “that I, to whom all this is no novelty should be thus affected. It is a weakness from which I shall never recover.”

“Not weakness, dear Faith,” said Bernard, “but the impressibility of a poetical temperament. Only an insensible heart could be unmoved.”

“If these rocks could speak, what legends they might tell of vanished races,” said Faith. “There is something inexpressibly sad in the fate of those who once were the masters of these woods and fields, and streams.

“They but submit to the common fate, which compels the inferior to make way for the superior race, as my father says.”

“How beautiful,” she continued, “must this goodly land have seemed to the Indian hunter, when, after the day’s chase, he dropped the deer upon the ground, and, from this high point, looked over the green forests and shining stream. I should not wonder, if now, in the voice of the cataract, he fancies he hears the groans of his ancestors, and the screams of demons.”

“There are traditions connected with this place,” said Bernard, “but they are fast fading away, and promise soon to be forgotten.”

“Are you acquainted with any?”

“A friend of mine has endeavored to rescue one from oblivion, but I doubt if it would interest you.”

“I am interested in everything that relates to this people. Tell me the story now. What more fitting place for romance!”

“A fitting place certainly, but no fitting time. Romance would hardly mitigate the keenness of the air, or diminish the probability of taking cold, were you to stand here listening to Indian legends. Besides, the tale is in manuscript, and I should not be able, relying on memory, to do it justice.”

“You shall read it to me this evening, where you cannot make such excuses,” she replied, taking again his arm, and resuming their walk, “by the light of candles, and near the parlor fire, where we may hear, and not feel the wind.”

“But where would be the accompaniments of the tale? The framing I fear would spoil the picture.”

“You will have the benefit of contrast, which every great painter desires.”

“I am only too happy to please you,” he said, with a sigh.

“My almost brother, William, I knew you would not refuse me the favor.”

Conversing in this manner, they had reached a turn in the road, which led back to the village by a route different from that they had come, when they saw Esther approaching, with her son. The boy walked in advance of his mother, who seemed to tread in his steps, while that unfailing companion of the semi-civilized red man, a dog, lounged by his side.

Quadaquina was a handsome child, of thirteen or fourteen years of age, with a perfectly oval face, and eyes deep set and keen, that glittered like a snake’s, resembling his mother, from whom he inherited his beauty. His dress differed not from that of white boys, except that there was thrown round his shoulders a piece of coarse blue broadcloth, disposed like a shawl. Esther had on her head a dark colored felt hat, such as is worn by laborers, from beneath which long black hair fell down upon her shoulders. A shawl, like the boy’s, was thrown over her, a skirt, of the same material, extended half way down between the knee and ankle, and crimson leggins completed the dress.

As they came up, Faith and Bernard stopped to speak to them, and inquire after Holden. She had been apprised of his escape, and of the visit of Pownal and Anne, but had refrained from going to his retreat in consequence of its being thought advisable to attract as little attention to it as possible. To her inquiries Esther returned the most satisfactory answers. Holden appeared quite contented, and was engaged in preaching to the Indians, and teaching them the principles of the Christian faith.

“Do the Indians listen to what he says?” inquired Bernard.

“They listen; Indian always listen,” said Esther, “and the wind blow the words through the ears.”

“I suppose so,” said the young man, laughing. “Holden may now truly call himself the voice of one crying in the wilderness, and a wilderness it is likely to remain.”

There was something both in the manner and language that jarred the feelings of Faith, and she said:

“I will never give up the hope that these poor people may be Christianized. Do you not think, Esther, that there has been an improvement in the habits of the tribe within a few years?”

Esther hung down her head, and only answered, “Indian will be Indian.”

“I will not despair,” said Faith. “Be sure, Esther, you come to the house before you return. I have something for you, and a message for Father Holden.

“I can conceive of no character,” said Faith, after they had parted from Esther, “more noble than that of the Christian missionary. He is the true redresser of wrongs, the only real knight that ever lived. You smile,” she said, looking at Bernard. “Do you not think so?”

“I think with you,” he replied. “There can be no nobler man than he who submits to privation, and exposes his life to danger through love to his fellow man. It is God-like. But I smiled at the association of ideas, and not at the sentiment. Think of Holden as a knight.”

“To me there is nothing ludicrous in the thought. When I look at him, I see not the coarse unusual dress, but the heroic soul, that would have battled valiantly by the side of Godfrey for the holy sepulchre.”

“I am afraid he will meet with only disappointment in his efforts to reform the Indians.”

“We cannot know the result of any labor. We will do our duty, and leave the rest to God.”

“They have not the degree of cultivation necessary to the reception of a religion so refined and spiritual as the Christian. They must first be educated up to it.”

“But you would not, meanwhile, neglect the very thing for which they are educated. Religious instruction must be a part of the education, and it brings refinement with it.”

“Certainly, if it can be received; but therein consists the difficulty. I am afraid it is as reasonable to expect a savage to apprehend the exalted truths of Christianity, as one unaquainted with geometry, the forty-ninth proposition of the first book of Euclid.”

“The comparison is not just. Science demands pure intellect; but religion, both intellect and feeling, perhaps most of the latter. The mind is susceptible of high cultivation, the heart feels instinctively, and that of a peasant may throb with purer feeling than a philosopher’s and for that reason be more ready to receive religious truth. And who may limit the grace of God?”

“You have thought deeper on this subject than I, Faith. But how hard must it be for the rays of divine truth to pierce through the blackness of that degradation which civilization has entailed on them! The conversion of the North American Indian was easier at the landing of the Pilgrims than now.”

“The greater our duty,” exclaimed Faith, clasping her hands, “to atone for the wrongs we have inflicted. But, William, some good has been done. Look at my dear, good Esther.”

“Esther deserves your praise, I am sure, because you say it. But it is you that have made her good. She could not be with you, without being benefited.”

“You are very kind, but no merit attaches to me. They were the precepts of Christianity that softened her heart, though she was always gentle.”

“It was the sweetness of religion she heard in your voice, its kindness she read in your eyes, and its loveliness illustrated in your life, that attracted and improved Esther”

“Were I to admit what you say, the credit would, after all, belong to religion.”

The sun had nearly reached his meridian, as the young couple approached the house of Mr. Armstrong. What a change had been produced in a few hours! The warm sunshine, while it glorified the landscape had robbed it of its sparkling beauty. The trees no longer wore their silver armor; the branches, relieved of the unusual weight, had lost the graceful curves and resumed their original positions; white blossoms no longer bedecked the evergreens; and all around, large drops were falling, as if lamenting the passing away of the short-lived magnificence.

On parting from Bernard, at her father’s door, Faith reminded him of his promise, and invited him and Anne to tea with her in the evening. Bernard accepted the invitation for himself, and conditionally for his sister.