I cannot think of sorrow now: and doubt
If e’er I felt it ’tis so dazzled from
My memory by this oblivious transport.

BYRON

“Here come that strange old man,” said Felix, the next morning, looking out of the kitchen window, which commanded a view of the road. “I do believe he’s bewitched the boss.”

Rosa, to whom the remark was addressed, ran to the window, and saw the Recluse coming up the street.

“I’m ’stonished,” she said, “that Mr. Armstrong and Miss Faith give so much encouragement to these low pussons. They always take so much liberty.”

“Give ’em an inch and they take two feet,” said Felix. “I wish his two feet take him away from this house for the last time,” he added, laughing.

“Ha, ha, ha, you so ’musing Felix,” said Rosa. “There is something too very genteel in your laugh.”

“You do me proud, sweet Rosa,” answered Felix, bowing with his hand upon his breast.

Holden was no favorite of the black. The well-dressed and well-fed servant of a wealthy family, with the feeling common to all who judge from outside appearances, had at first been disposed to look down upon the coarsely-dressed anchorite, who supported himself by so mean a labor as the manufacture of baskets, and to consider him as little better than a beggar-man. No sooner, however, did Holden detect the feeling, and it was instantly, than he corrected it, so that it never made its appearance again in his presence. In fact, a feeling of fear superseded the impertinence of the negro. There was something in the burning glare of Holden’s eyes, and the deep tones of his voice, that exerted an inexplicable power over Felix. Much he turned it over in his mind, why, in spite of himself, he was obliged to be as civil to Holden as to white gentlemen, and at last concluded, the Solitary possessed some magic art, by which he controlled others. He the more readily adopted the opinion because he considered his master and young mistress under the spell of the same glamourie to which he himself had succumbed.

When, therefore, Holden struck with the knocker on the door, the obsequious Felix was at hand to open it, and show him into the parlor.

“Tell your master I am here,” said Holden, entering.

“How does he know Mr. Armstrong is at home?” said Felix, to himself. “But I’m a free man, and it is very onpolite to talk about my master.”

“The Lord hath raised up a mighty salvation for us,” was the address of Holden, as Mr. Armstrong entered the room. “I come to bid thee farewell for a time.”

“Farewell!” repeated Mr. Armstrong, without comprehending the meaning of the other.

“Sit thee down, dear friend, and listen to what will give thee joy for my sake now, and thine own hereafter. My son, who was dead, is alive again.”.

Armstrong was at a loss to divine the meaning of his visitor. He took it for some figurative form of expression, and, without making any reply, passed his hand over his forehead, as if trying to recall some idea.

Holden read his thoughts. “Thou dost not understand,” he said. “Know then that the child perished not with the mother.”

“My friend,” said Armstrong, who had now complete command of himself, “you do not reflect that I cannot understand your allusions. Explain to me, that I may participate in your joy.”

“The child of my youth, he whom I lost, whom I mourned for so many years as dead, is alive,” exclaimed Holden, in tones of irrepressible emotion.

“I give you joy,” said Armstrong, grasping his hand. “But you never mentioned you had a son. How have you lost, and how found him?”

“It is the Lord’s doing, and it is marvelous in our eyes,” said Holden. “Not long since thou didst tell of an unhappy man, round whom afflictions had gathered. Now will I tell thee of another not less wretched, the clouds of whose sorrow the setting sun is gilding. Be it unto thee for a lesson of hope, for I tell thee, James, that assuredly thou shalt be comforted.”

We will endeavor to compress into a few words the more diffuse narrative of the Recluse, confining ourselves to the substance.

It will be recollected that before Holden’s constrained retirement among the Indians, he had attached to him the squaw, Esther, by the ties of both gratitude and respect. But it was only at a distance she looked up to him whom she regarded as a sort of superior being. She would not have ventured to speak to him of herself, for how could he take an interest in so insignificant a creature? The nearer relations, however, into which they were thrown, while he was an inmate of her cabin, without diminishing her affection, abated her awe. The teachings of Holden, and the strong interest he manifested for herself and tribe so affected her, that one day she made to him a confession of the events of her life. It is only necessary to recount those which have a connection with this story. Some twenty years previous she had accompanied her husband on a visit to a tribe in Kentucky, into which some of her own relatives had been received. While there an expedition had been undertaken by the Indians, which her husband joined, against the white settlements, then inconsiderable, and exposed. After a few days the warriors returned in triumph, bringing with them many scalps, but no prisoner, except a little boy, saved by her husband, Huttamoiden. He delivered the child to her, and having none herself, she soon learned to love it as her own. Huttamoiden described to her with that particularity which marks the description of natural objects by an Indian, whose habits of life in the forest compel him to a close observation, the situation of the log-hut from which the child was taken, the hut itself before which leaped a mountain stream, the appearance of the unfortunate woman who was murdered, and the desperate resistance of the master of the cabin, who, at the time, was supposed to have perished in the flames, but was afterwards known by the name of Onontio as the scourge and terror of the tribe which had destroyed his family. She had shortly afterwards started with her husband, taking with them the little boy, for the east, but they found the innumerable questions and suspicions occasioned by the possession of the white child so annoying, and dreaded so the inquiries and investigation that would be made upon their return home, that they determined to get rid of him upon the first opportunity. As their route lay through New York, the streets of a populous city furnished the very chance they desired. It was with great reluctance Esther felt herself compelled to this course, and she was unwilling the child should fall into unkind hands. While reflecting upon what was to be done, she remembered a family which had come from that part of the country whence she came, and whom she had known as worthy people, and determined to entrust to them the boy. She dared not to do this openly. So one night she placed the child on their door-step, enjoining him not to stir until some one took him into the house, while she herself watched close by, until she saw him taken in. Since then, not daring to make inquiries, for fear of bringing on herself some unknown punishment, she had not heard of the boy. She remembered the name of the people with whom he was left, and also the street, and the number, and gave them to Holden.

Upon this foundation it was the Recluse built up the hope that his son was yet alive.

“I am Onontio,” he said. “The Being who touched the heart of the ferocious savage to spare the life of the child, hath preserved him. Mine eyes shall yet behold him.”

Armstrong was deeply touched, and in the contemplation of the brightening prospects of his friend, he forgot the clouds that hung around his own horizon. Perhaps he was not so sanguine of success as Holden, whose eagle eyes seemed penetrating the future, but he respected too deeply the high raised hopes and sacred feelings of the father, to drop a word of doubt or discouragement.

“Myself, my purse,” he said, “are at your service.”

“Thomas Pownal goeth to the city to-morrow,” replied Holden. “I will speak unto him, and accompany him. Nor do I refuse thy assistance, but freely as it is offered as freely do I accept it. They who are worthy to be called my friends, regard gold and silver only as it ministers to their own and others’ wants.”

He took the proffered bank-bills with quite as much an air of one conferring, as one of receiving a favor, and, without even looking at the amount, put them in his pocket.

It was so long since Holden had been in the great world, or mingled in the ordinary pursuits of men and his appearance and mode of speech were so different from those of others that Armstrong had some fears respecting his researches. It was, perhaps, this latent apprehension of his fitness to appear in the world an apprehension, however, only dimly cognizable by himself that induced Holden to seek the companionship of Pownal. With these feelings, and believing he might be of advantage to this strange man, for whom this new development awakened additional interest in his mind, Armstrong offered to be his companion, in the search for his son; but, to his surprise, his offer was hastily rejected.

“No,” said Holden; “it befitteth not. Stay, to take care of Faith. Stay, to welcome me when I shall return with a crown of rejoicing upon my head.”

Armstrong shrunk within himself at the repulse. He would not have regarded or hardly noticed it once, but, his mind had become morbidly sensitive. A word, a look, a tone had now power to inflict a wound. He was like the Sybarite whose repose was disturbed by a wrinkled rose-leaf; with this difference, that they were spiritual, not material hurts he felt. Did the forecast of Holden penetrate the future? Did he, as in a vision, behold the spectres of misfortune that dogged Armstrong’s steps? Was he afraid of a companionship that might drag him down and entangle him in the meshes of a predestined wretchedness? He is right, thought Armstrong. He sees the whirlpool into which, if once drawn, there is no escape from destruction.

Holden succeeded better in communicating a portion of his confidence to Pownal. In the morning of life, before experience has dimmed our sky with clouds, we readily perceive the sun of joy. The bright eyes of youth catch his rays on the mountain tops, before the drooping lids of age are raised from the ground. The ardent temperament of the young man entered with delight into the hopes of his elder. He even anticipated the request Holden intended to make, and asked permission to accompany him. With a very natural feeling he endeavored to effect some change in the costume of the Recluse, but here he met with decided opposition.

“I have nothing to do with the world or its follies,” said Holden. “Let it pass on its way as I will on mine. It will reck but little of the garments of an unknown man.”

It was more for the sake of his friend than himself that Pownal proposed the change. Perceiving the feelings of the other, he forbore to press a proposal further, which, after all, was of but little consequence. A sloop was to sail the next day the wind favoring from Hillsdale, and it was agreed between the two to take passage together.

We may judge of the feelings of Pownal at this time, from the fact that the last evening he spent at Hillsdale, before he left for New York, where, indeed, he expected to remain but a short time, found him at the house of Judge Bernard. He was fortunate, whether beyond his expectations or not we cannot say, in finding Miss Bernard alone. At least it was a fortunate coincidence with his wishes, and might we judge, from the raised color of the cheeks, and the smiles that played round the lips of the beautiful girl, not displeasing to her. It is wonderful, when we look back, how frequently these charming accidents of youth occur.

It was unnecessary that Pownal should speak of his intended trip to the commercial capital. He seemed to assume that Anne was already acquainted with his purpose, but of Holden’s discovery she had not been informed.

“Beautiful!” cried Anne, clapping her hands. “We shall have a denouement fit for a novel yet. Oh, I do hope he may find his son. And,” added she, with a warm quick feeling, “I can see now reason for the strange habits of our poor dear prophet. Oh, to think of the long years of lonesome misery he must have passed!”

“He seems to have no doubt,” said Pownal, “of discovering his lost son. I confess that when I heard him in his animated way tell his story, with eyes raised in thankfulness to heaven, I was swept along by his enthusiasm, and felt no more doubt than himself of his success; but when I reflect more calmly on the circumstances the prospect is not so brilliant.”

“Do not doubt: the prospect is brilliant: Jeremiah shall cease his lamentations: our prophet shall be made happy. Ah, why anticipate anything but good!”

“I accept the omen, dear Miss Bernard,” said Pownal, looking with admiration upon her beaming countenance, “Men arrive at conclusions, how often false, by a fallible process of reasoning, while truth comes to your more fortunate sex by a happy inspiration.”

“And I accept the compliment, since you accept the inspiration. I hope it is with more than the ordinary sincerity of those in the habit of making compliments.”

“I wish you could see into my heart.”

“You would wish the window closed immediately. What do you suppose I should see there?”

“Yourself.”

“Then it is a looking-glass,” said Anne, blushing. “A valuable piece of furniture certainly, in which any lady may view her face!”

“No! a portrait more true to life than Stuart’s, and which I prize above everything.”

“You must be mistaken in fancying it mine. Only old pictures are prized. The moderns have no reputation.”

“You will always jest. I assure you I am serious,” said Pownal, who, however, was obliged to smile.

“I see you are very serious. Oh, I hate seriousness ever since I was frightened by the long face of Deacon Bigelow, when he discovered my ignorance of the catechism. It was as long,” she added, looking round for something to compare it to, “as the tongs.”

“Or as your lessons of a June day, when the sunshine and birds, and flowers were inviting you to join them.”

“Or as the time when I do not see Faith for twenty-four hours.”

“Or as my absence will be to me in New York.”

“I wonder how you,” said Anne, “who are accustomed to the bustle and excitement of a large city, can be contented with the quiet monotony of a country town.”

“I found something here not to be found in all country towns,” said Pownal. “Besides, the noise and confusion of a large place never were agreeable to me, and when I return to them they lie like a weight upon my spirits. Instead of a city I ought to have been born in a boundless forest.”

“You know I have said, I thought there was a wildness about you,” replied Anne, laughing.

“Do you not consider the wild animal tamed?”

“Not entirely. It belongs to a species almost irreclaimable.”

“He will never be tamed a second time.”

“Then he must not be suffered to escape.”

The words flew from the lips of the gay impulsive girl before she was aware. The eloquent blood crimsoned her cheeks, and clapping both her hands upon her face to conceal the blushes, she burst into a laugh as musical as the song of the canary bird. Pownal’s eyes sparkled with delight, but before he could utter a word, she had sprung upon her feet.

“It is too bad,” she cried, “to compare you to a wild animal. Forgive and forget my impertinence. I have been reading a novel,” and as, she said so she took a book from the table, “by an American author, which interests me greatly. Have you seen it?”

Pownal took the book into his hands. It was one of Charles Brockden Brown’s.

“I read it some years ago,” he said; “and I remember it made a great impression upon me at the time. It appears to me to be written with wonderful power of enchaining the attention. I could not lay it down until it was finished.”

“Exactly as I was affected,” said Anne.

“Yet I wonder that one so lively and merry as Miss Bernard should be pleased with such a book. The subjects of Brown’s novels are all gloomy. His imagination seems at home only in sombre scenes. His is the fascination of horror.”

“I wonder at it myself. But it shows the ability of the writer, in being able to affect as thoughtless a person as I am.”

“Not thoughtless. No one would say that of you but yourself. It is, perhaps, because of your gaiety on account of the contrast. The sunshine loves to light up dark places.”

“Very prettily expressed. Really, if you go on improving, we must have you appointed valentine-manufacturer-general for the town of Hillsdale.”

“I suspect the valentines would all be addressed to one person.”

“Then I shall oppose your appointment. But let that pass for the present. You were telling me why I liked Brown’s novels.”

“I am not so presumptuous. I was only guessing. It is the Yankee’s privilege. The world concedes it to us. I suggest then that your mind wanders through those dark scenes with an interest like that with which a traveller contemplates a strange country. And may they ever remain a strange region to you. May you ever continue to be what you are now, a bright being, at whose approach sorrow and sadness fly away.”

The conversation was here interrupted by the entrance of the Judge and Mrs. Bernard, on their return from some neighborly call. Anne received the bonnet and shawl from her mother, who was evidently accustomed to such attentions, nor had the young lady ever appeared more beautiful in the eyes of the young man, than when he saw her rendering those little services of filial respect and affection. “She deserves,” he said to himself, “the richest gifts of Providence. One so bright, so pure, so innocent, must be a favorite of the angels.”

These were lover’s thoughts, and our readers at the remembrance of youthful dreams and fancies will pardon their extravagance. They come at only one period of life, and oh, how quickly do they fly, leaving behind a trail of light which may, indeed, be obscured, but never quite extinguished.

Pownal informed the Judge of his intended departure, and, as usual, received from him and Mrs. Bernard some commissions to execute on their account. That of the former was for some books, while his wife’s, we are compelled to say, however undignified it may sound, was for nothing more important than the last fashionable French bonnet. But let us add that she took not more pleasure in wearing a becoming head-dress (and what new fashion is not becoming?) than he in seeing her handsome face in its adornment.

“My husband,” she said, “Mr. Pownal, tries to Frenchify me a little, sometimes, and I am obliged to indulge him, he is generally so good; but he will never succeed in making anything else out of me than a plain Yankee woman.”

“Plain or beautiful, the highest title to my affection,” said the Judge, gallantly. “I have been a traveller, Thomas, and have seen the Old World. This is a progressive world; and, believe me, the productions of the New are not, to say the least, inferior to those of the Old.”

“I can well believe it,” said Pownal, bowing to the ladies.

“A pleasant voyage, Thomas,” said the Judge, as he bade his young friend good-bye, “along the sandy shores of Long Island, and through the perils of Hell Gate.”