University of Virginia Library

16. CHAPTER XVI.

Emily was one day sitting by her window,
when she saw a party of travellers
from Lebanon springs stop at their gate.
It suddenly occurred to her that she
might, through the agency of some one
of the party, get a letter conveyed to her
friends. The thought that this might be
the first step towards leaving the society,
flitted across her mind, but without
forming any distinct purpose, she hastily
penned the letter, which was the occasion
of Ellen's abrupt departure from
Eton. She then stationed herself at a

door that opened into one of the passages
through which the visitors were to pass;
and arresting the attention of a romantic
young lady who was in the rear of the
throng, she slipped the letter into her
hand, unobserved by any one, and entreating
her to convey it safely to some
post-office, she disappeared, leaving her
confidant quite elated with the trust
which had been confided to her by the
pale interesting little shaker, and which
she discharged, as has been seen, with
laudable fidelity.

Activity is as necessary to the health
of the mind, as exercise to that of the
body. Emily derived more benefit from
the effort she had made in writing and
despatching her letter than she had felt
from the combined skill, moral and medical,
of the whole fraternity. For a few
days her heart was cheered, and her
countenance brightened. She had no
settled purpose of leaving the society:
she still believed it her duty to remain

with them, and the tender sympathy and
forbearance of her aunt had strengthened
the almost filial love she bore her—the only
sentiment that alleviated the misery of her
condition. Still her belief of Harrington's
hypocrisy, countenanced and confirmed
as it was by Susan, had shaken
her faith in the monstrous pretensions of
the believers: she fancied she saw deceit
lurking under many a broad brim, and
she felt a secret revulsion from the dancing
worship, which she had never joined
in, or even witnessed since the memorable
night of Harrington's inspiration.

A few days after the despatch of the
letter, and just at twilight—that sweet
hour consecrated by all young ladies in
their teens to sentiment and romantic
meditations—Emily, availing herself of
the liberty she had recently enjoyed,
strolled out, without any other purpose
than to be alone, and think her own
thoughts. She had not walked far when
she perceived Reuben approaching her.

He did not appear to have observed her,
and to escape his notice she turned into
a little enclosure she had just then reached,
which a few broken stones marked as
a place of interment. She paused a moment
at the graves, and almost envied
their silent tenants.

The shakers preserve all their austere
formality in the disposition of their dead:
the brethren and sisters are laid in separate
and parallel lines, as if they contemplated
the same restrictions in the other
world which they impose here: each
grave is designated by a rough hewn
stone inscribed (with ostentatious humility)
with the initials only of the name
borne by the person who reposes beneath
it. Emily's thoughts naturally reverted
to the village church-yard where her
father and her mother slept. That seemed
a social place when compared with
the shaker burial ground. Her imagination
pictured the storied monuments—
the sacred spot where her parents laid—

the beautiful willow that drooped over
it, and the neatly carved white stone
that stood under its shadow, setting
forth in its long inscription their virtues
and their sufferings. “Oh, that I was
there,” was the involuntary breathing of
her spirit.

After lingering for a few moments lost
in melancholy contemplations, she turned
away and pursued her walk through a
secluded path to the garden which lay
at a short distance from her. As she
entered it she passed an old man arranging
a bed of violets, which with many
other beautiful flowers obtain sufferance
among these ascetics on account of some
real or fancied medical virtue.

“I am glad to see ye, child,” said the
good-natured old man. “I think ye are
picking up a little, and I am heartily
glad to see it: I would not have you a
drooping lily all your days. It is a short
pilgrimage through this world, and a
thorny path it may be, but seeing it

leads to the garden of Paradise, it is not
worth while for a reasonable person to
worry with the troubles by the way; they
can't last long—that is a comfort,” continued
the speaker, striking his spade
into the earth and resting upon it. “I
have seen mothers wailing for their firstborn
as if their very souls died with
them, and in a few days, or a few years
at worst, that passed away like a vapour,
they too were cut down and lying quiet
beside them. I have seen children
withering away like a severed branch at
the death of their parents, and a frost
has come and nipt them in their flower.
I have seen people wearying themselves
for riches and honours, and just when
they had got them, leave them all for the
shroud and the cold earth. I tell you,
my young sister, life is a short journey,
therefore don't be discouraged if the
road is not quite to your liking.”

Emily made no reply to this kind exhortation,
but she plucked some of the

violets and asked the old man, if they
were not sometimes called “heart's
ease?”

“Yea, I believe some folks call them
heart's ease.”

“And do they grow no where but on
the believer's ground?” she asked.

“Yea, yea,” replied the man, smiling
significantly, as if he understood the
import of her inquiry; “they grow all
about among the neighbours — every
where.”

He paused and looked at Emily for a
moment, and then casting his eyes in
every direction, and ascertaining there
was no one in hearing, he lowered his
voice and said, “I believe you to be a
discreet, good little body, and that
you'll keep the counsel I give you to
yourself. You are wearied with this
kind of strange, still life, child—your
mind is running upon your relations,
your home—may be upon some sweetheart—now
ye need not look so frightened,

it is nat'ral, it is nat'ral—I don't
blame you for it. I always feel sorry to
see a young and tender plant put into
soil it don't love; it never takes root
fairly—never thrives. Now, my advice
is that you pluck up courage, tell the
people the plain truth, go home to your
friends, get a good husband, and `guide
the house.' Ye can take scripture warrant
with you, for its God's own word,
that `in every nation, he that feareth
him and worketh righteousness is accepted
of him.”'

Emily with very natural surprise gazed
at the old man as if she discredited her
senses. “Are you a shaker?” she
asked.

“A shaker, girl!” he replied, laughing—“yea,
and a very good shaker.”
His muscles contracted as he added, “I
have been what is called an unfortunate
man in the world. Every thing went
against me. I lost my wife, my children—lost
my property—and I thought

I could not do better than to get a shelter
in this peaceable place; and as I had
a remarkable gift for gardening, the
people were glad to have me with
them.”

“Then you are not a shaker?” said
Emily, bewildered by the contrariety of
his motives with those she had always
heard professed by the shakers.

“Yea, but I am, that is to say, in the
main a believer. Our people are foolish
about some things, but then I never saw
any religion but there were some weeds
among it; and to speak truly, I am too
near the end of my summer to care much
where my leaves drop; but it is a pity
you should be growing, nay, growing
you are not, but withering in the shade:
say nothing, but store my counsel in
your heart, and let it bring forth its fruit
in season:” thus concluding, the kindhearted
old gardener turned away and
left Emily to reflect on his singular communication.

Though not a very skilful reasoner,
she came to the just conclusion, that
such shakers as the crafty Harrington
and the frank gardener, were not shakers
by divine impulse; that the ties which
attached others to the society were not
in all cases indissoluble, and the society
itself did not exist by prescriptive divine
right.

She sought a sequestered part of the
garden, and seating herself in the shade
of some fruit-trees, and as she thought
secure from observation, she drew from
her bosom the precious little scroll which
linked her to the world. All that was
there written was more legibly inscribed
on her heart, but still she loved to look
on it. The sight of it touched her imagination
like a conjurer's wand, and
brought before her all those images she
most loved to dwell upon. She resigned
herself to the visions of her fancy, forgot
the formal habitations around her, the
severe brethren and the pale sisters; and

was restored to the Lenox family, joining
in their bustling occupations, sharing
their pleasures, the object of the kindness
of all, and the chosen, loved partner
of James. She beheld her old grandmother
cheerful and approving, Ellen
Bruce smiling on her with sisterly kindness,
the merry faces of the children;
she heard their unrebuked mirth, Debby's
loud laugh; she saw and she heard
all, till awakened from her reverie by an
approaching footstep, she looked up and
beheld Harrington coming towards her.
She instinctively started on her feet, and
intending to restore the scroll to its
hiding place, she unconsciously dropped
it. As she walked hastily past Harrington
homeward, he said, “Stop, Emily—
stop, my good girl—I have something
particular to say to you.”

“I cannot hear it now,” she replied,
redoubling her speed.

“You cannot!” muttered Reuben,
looking after her: “the time will come

when you shall hear me—and hear me
patiently and quietly.”

Provoked at being defeated in his purpose
of speaking to her, he remained
where she left him, whetting his resentment
and brooding vengeance, when the
note she had dropped caught his eye.
He took it up, and read it. “Ah now,”
thought he, “I see the reasons why my
fair offers were received with horror and
disdain — the little fool has a younger
sweetheart— but she shall find the old
fox an overmatch for the young hound.”

Never did a vulture fasten his talons
around his victim with more exultation
than Harrington thrust poor little Emily's
lost talisman into his pocket—he did not
see exactly how he should turn it to
account; but it gave him power, and
power in his hands was the sure means
of mischief. It would not be very edifying
to thread all the intricate windings
of his bad mind—to examine the projects
he conceived and dismissed, till he devised

one which flattered him with the
hope of the certain destruction of his
innocent victim, and with the prospect
of complete vengeance on the elder sister,
who he well knew was vulnerable
alone through this object of her natural
affection.

Subtle and active, it was not long before
his plans were matured. Two days
after he had obtained possession of the
note for which Emily had anxiously and
vainly sought, he came on some pretext
of business into an apartment where she
and one of the sisters were sitting. Emily
felt as strong an impulse to leave the
room as if a venomous reptile had crept
into it, but afraid of attracting the notice
of a third person, she remained with
as much tranquillity as she could command.

After a few moments, a traveller
chanced to pass in a waggon. Emily's
companion was attracted to the window.
Harrington followed her, and looking

earnestly at the traveller, he said carelessly,
“That young man favours James
Lenox—it is possible it may be him”—
he paused, and Emily instinctively sprang
towards the window. Reuben looked at
her, and conscience-smitten, she shrunk
back into her chair.

“I am told young Lenox is in these
parts,” pursued Harrington, “and I
judged he might ride over here to see
some of his old friends.” Again he
turned his eyes on Emily, hers met his—
her face and neck were crimson. “I
wish, Judy,” said he, to the young woman
who was still gazing out of the window,
“that ye would go to the sewingroom,
and inquire if my coat is finished?”

Judy went, and Emily rose to follow
her. “Stop, Emily,” said Harrington, in
a low voice, and unobserved by Judy,
laying his hand on her arm, and closing
the door, “with all your gettings, get
discretion, young woman: your ready
step, your burning cheeks, would this

moment have betrayed your secret to
me, if I had not known it before. Nay,
now you must hear me—be calm, do not
tremble, we have no time to waste—take
this note,” said he, restoring her treasure,
“and be thankful that it fell into
friendly hands. The hint I gave you
was spoken in earnest: James Lenox is
in Lebanon. The silly boy sent a letter
to you sealed; it fell into my hands; it
was my duty to open it, and my duty, as
you well know, I perform at all risks—
here it is.” Emily hastily caught it without
observing the diabolical sneer on
Reuben's face. “Now mark me, young
woman,” he continued. “I see it is a
vain struggle you are keeping up—ye
cannot abide here; and as you are of
the earth earthy, I cannot counsel you
to abide—you shall see that I am your
friend, and will return good for evil.
Lenox urges you to join him at Lebanon:
he thinks if he comes here, ye will
not be able to resist the open opposition
of the people—ye'll read his letter, and
ye'll find this is the last day of his stay in
these parts; and if ye do not join him
before to-morrow, he concludes you are
still in bonds to the believers.

“I have had the letter in my possession
four days, and you may thank yourself
that you have not got it sooner; ye
have fled from me as if I had been a tiger,
or a rattle-snake. Now mark me, if you
take my counsel you'll go to-night quietly
and secretly. Little as you deserve it
from me, it is in my mind to help you:
if you will come to the supper-table with
your cap tied, I'll take it for a signal that
you are determined to go, and I will be
ready one hour after sunset with a waggon
and horses, just at the turning of the road
that leads to North-house. I wish to go
thus early that I may return before day-light,
for it is not needful the brethren
should know that I take up for you.
They might not view your departure as
I do; for after all it is but acting up to

your light, which is all we profess to require.
Now go, young woman, and the
Lord direct all your steps.”

He gazed after her as she passed
through the passage, and exclaimed,
exultingly rubbing his hands, “I have
caught her—I have caught her at last.
Let the fox but clear the ground, and the
old one may bark till doomsday.”

It was some time after Emily reached
her own apartment before she became
sufficiently composed to read the letter:
her head swam, and her hands shook
violently; but at last, making a great
effort, she did read it. It was filled with
passionate declarations of love, and earnest
and repeatedentreaties that she would
join the writer at Lebanon, where he said
he should await her four days. He
alleged many very plausible reasons for
not coming to the village. He rested
his earnest suit mainly on his ardent,
devoted attachment to her; but at the
close of the letter he insinuated that if

she did not return to Eton with him, her
grandmother's death must lie at her
door, so much had her desertion of the
poor old lady shattered her health and
spirits.

Emily perused and re-perused the letter;
she felt her cheeks burning while
she read it, and she wondered that James
should write in a style so impassioned—
`surely he ought not,' she thought, and
the next moment mentally accused herself
of injustice. `Alas,' she said, `if
my heart beats thus at the bare thought
of meeting him, can I blame him if he
talks in the fashion of the world's people?—my
head is in such strange confusion,
that it may be I do not understand
him aright.'

But every other consideration was
swallowed up in the necessity of coming
to an immediate decision whether to go
or remain. Emily's convictions, as they
had been deemed, had gradually subsided
as her early attachments revived,

and her inclinations for the world
strengthened; and now, no strong tie
remained to be broken but her love for
the elder sister, which had produced such
habitual dependence on her, that she
had become a mere machine governed
by a power which she could neither understand
nor resist.

There was now a demand on her for
extraordinary energy, she must act independently,
promptly, and secretly. Her
mind was tempest-tost, and while the
sore conflict lasted, reason threatened at
every moment to abandon the helm.
Much cause as she had to distrust Harrington's
integrity, she did not on this
occasion doubt the sincerity of his kindness.
Her mind was engrossed by the
great circumstance of her departure, and
she scarcely thought of the means by
which it was to be effected. Once, indeed,
the thought flitted across her mind,
that Reuben's compassionate interference

in her behalf was very strange, and
for the moment she felt an almost invincible
repugnance to trust herself with
him; but there was no alternative, she
had no other means of meeting James.
She could, it was true, declare her resolution
to leave the society. No one was
ever detained by physical force; but to
a weak and irresolute mind there are
moral barriers that are as impassable as
prison-walls, and Emily felt that she had
not the courage necessary to persevere
against the deliberate opposition of the
society, to withstand the counsel, rebuke,
or sneer that she must expect from the
different characters that composed that
strange community, and above all to
meet the elder sister's eye. But how
could she bear to deceive her, to steal
away from her tenderest friend as from
an enemy! The thought of making this
treacherous return to her maternal kindness
quite overcame the poor girl, and
Susan entering at this moment, found
her wringing her hands and sobbing most
piteously.

“What has happened to you, Emily,
child?” she asked, in her kindest voice:
“this distress is something more than
common with you.”

Emily made no other reply than by
throwing her arms around Susan's neck,
and hiding her face on her bosom.

“Nay, child,” said Susan, folding her
arms around her, “ye must not. It is
but a tempting of Providence. Ye'll be
quite worn out in the struggle, and if
ye cannot conquer, why—ye had better
yield.”

`Now, now, if ever,' thought Emily,
`is the moment;' and she raised her
head from Susan's bosom with the full
purpose of confessing her weakness and
her wishes. But when she lifted her
tearful eyes, and saw the calm fixed
resolution marked on the elder sister's
face, and met her eye in which there

was the majesty of command, it awed
her spirit as that of man is said to awe
the inferior animals. Her head fell again
on Susan's bosom. “Ye are a strange
wayward child,” said she: “I am sorry
to leave you at this moment,” she added
—“nay, do not start, I shall return
to-morrow.”

“To-morrow!” echoed Emily,

“Yea to-morrow; and Judy has promised
to keep you company to-night.
One of the elders at Lebanon draws
near his end, and they have sent for me,
to consult upon some temporalities to be
settled before his departure. Now sit
down and compose yourself—it troubles
me to leave you thus.”

Susan led Emily to a chair, and at
this moment one of the sisters gave her
notice that the brethren were already in
the waggon and waiting for her. While
she hastened her preparations, she exhorted
Emily to be more tranquil, and
above all not to permit any one to see

how far the adversary yet maintained his
power over her. Emily, though she
groaned aloud as the door closed after
the elder sister, suffered her to depart
without any farther communication.

She passed the remainder of the day
in severe struggles; but finally, at the
close of it, she came to the supper-table
leaning on Judy, with her cap tied; and
one hour after, having evaded her companion's
observation, she stole, unnoticed
by any one, to the appointed place
of rendezvous, where she found Harrington,
and took with him the road to Lebanon.

Harrington, for reasons all important
to himself, abandoned the road usually
travelled, and turned at the western
extremity of the village, into one which
passes in a northerly direction over the
mountain to the town of Lebanon.
There are on this sequestered road but
two or three habitations for a distance
of several miles, and though it presents

many enchanting views of the uplands
and vallies, and ought therefore to attract
the lovers of the picturesque, few
of that (in our country) small and select
class ever heard of it; and business
travellers preferring the more levelled
and turnpike road, this remains unfrequented
and grass-grown.

The necessity that Harrington should
reach Albany with all possible expedition,
and execute his business there before
it was practicable that he should be overtaken,
forbade his permitting Emily to
remain in ignorance of his purposes, and
he had scarcely passed the boundary of
the village, before he began to unfold
them to her. His language was entirely
changed—all the mysterious phrases,
and the obscure and technical words,
with which he was wont, as he expressed
himself, to `sanctify his discourse,' to
guard it with equivocal meanings, and
veil it in unintelligible terms, were exchanged
for the concise language of the

man of business. Emily soon comprehended
that she was the dupe of his arts
—`that the decoy letter was forged by
him, after the model of the note, (he, as
he boasted, holding the pen of a ready
writer)—that James Lenox neither expected
nor wished for her—and finally,
that her reputation being destroyed by
her elopement with Harrington, her only
resource was to proceed with him, without
any ado, to the nearest justice, who
could perform the marriage ceremony,
to accept his hand, which he generously
proffered, and then pursue her way with
him to Albany, where he insultingly concluded
he should possess himself of a
sum of money that would enable him to
make a lady of her for the rest of her
life.'

Emily heard him through with dismay;
and springing from his side, she
would have cleared the waggon in an
instant, but he perceiving her design,
passed his arm around her, and pulled

her back on to the seat, and there detained
her in his strong grasp. She
screamed for help with reiterated cries,
and the only answer she received was,
“be quiet, sweetheart—you spend your
breath in vain—there is nothing in these
woods to hear you but the bats and owls
—no `elder sister' to snatch you from
me.”

“Oh!” exclaimed Emily, turning to
him with a look of helplessness and appeal
that might have awakened compassion
in a tiger. “Oh, do pity me.”

“Pity you, indeed!” he replied; “I
have none of that article on hand: I used
it all upon myself while I staid among
those devilish fools. Take wit in your
anger, girl—what can't be cured must
be endured. I foresaw that I should
have trouble with your stubborn nature,
and I have provided accordingly. But
fair play is a jewel, and the Lord knows,
I would like to treat you handsomely, if
you will hear to reason and let me.”

They had now nearly attained the summit
of the hill, and Harrington stopped
his horses. “Now, Emily Allen,” said
he, “I leave it to your free choice to go
with me to the first justice we can find,
and there quietly, and as it were, willingly,
be lawfully made Mrs. Harrington,
so that man can't put asunder what God
joins together—or abide here, where I
have bespoke a cage and a keeper for you
till my return, when you will be glad
enough to take me on my own terms.”

Emily listened in silence to the particulars
of the wretch's plot against her:
her whole frame trembled, and her lips
quivered: she made no other reply than
by attempting again to scream for help,
but her voice was so faint and incapable
of articulation, that it sounded like the
smothered cry of a person attempting to
scream in the agony of a frightful dream.

“Well,” said Reuben, after pausing
but a moment, “if you won't hear to
reason, you must e'en abide by the consequences.”

He then turned his horses
from the road into a deeply shaded passage
through the woods, where, by the
imperfect star-light, not a trace of a footstep
could be discerned. The way however
had been used, during the winter,
for the transportation of wood to the
neighbouring villages, and was sufficiently
cleared from impediments, to allow the
cautious Reuben to pass slowly and safely
through it. Emily looked around her in
utter despair—she cast her eyes up to the
heavens as if to appeal for mercy there
—their stillness and serene beauty seemed
to mock and aggravate her misery: she
tried to frame a mental petition to the
only Power that could rescue her, but
her mind was so shaken by terror that
she could not command her thoughts for
the effort.

They had proceeded about half a mile,
and Harrington again stopped. A bright
light streamed through a vista in the
woods on their right. Emily looked in

the direction whence it proceeded, and
saw, through the open door of a hovel,
a human figure enveloped in a blanket,
and extended on the ground before a
blazing fire. The light played fitfully
on the figure, now almost dying away,
and then streaming upward nearly to the
aperture in the roof through which the
smoke found its way. Happily imagination
could not aggravate her terrors,
and now fully aware of her own helplessness,
she sat as still as if she had been
turned to stone, while Harrington vociferated
“Holla! Sooduck—doctor! the
devil take the lazy loon, is he asleep or
drunk?” Reuben's repeated calls at
length roused a dog, whose head laid on
his master's bosom, and his barking
awakened the sleeper. He raised his
head, shook back the long black locks
that shaded his eyes, and looked around
as if uncertain whence the sound had
proceeded.

“Who's wanting the doctor?” he

asked, in a surly tone: “fools—will they
never learn not to come to me at the
moon's full?”

He then drew his blanket around him,
and was about to resume his sleeping
posture, when Harrington roused him
effectually. “Here, Sooduck,” he
screamed, “here I am on the spot;
have you forgotten, old fellow? Here
is the jug well filled, and here is the
girl.”

“Ah! is it you, friend Reuben? Here
I am, true as steel, watching for you.”

“A devil of a pretty watch you keep,”
muttered Harrington. “Come, come
along, doctor, I have no time to lose,
every minute is worth a golden guinea
to me.” The old man moved slowly
and with difficulty towards the waggon
—“why how now, Emily, girl,” continued
Harrington, “it's hard parting,
is it. She clings to me, doctor, like a
bur.”

“What have you brought here?”

asked the old man, looking inquiringly
at Emily, who, quite spent with terror,
had sunk insensible into Harrington's
arms. “No, no, friend,” he added,
turning away, “since the breath is gone,
I'll have nothing to do with her: it is bad
luck meddling with the dead, and there
was no death in the bargain.”

“Stop, you old fool,” exclaimed Harrington.

“Fool, I may be, friend Reuben, but
I'll not be fool to a fool—I tell you again
I'll not undertake with the dead.”

“Excuse me, doctor,” said Reuben,
in a moderated soothing tone, “you have
mistaken your case for the first time in
your life: the girl is no more dead than
you or I—she is as fearful as a fawn,
Sooduck, and your old Indian face has
frightened her out of her wits—she is
faint too, poor little sweetheart, with
grief at parting. Here, take the jug
first,” he added, well knowing that he

offered an argument irresistible to Sooduck:
“there is life of man for you,
doctor—it will make your lazy blood
race through your old veins again, and
warm your cold heart to do a good turn
to a friend.”

“Ah Reuben, Reuben,” replied the
old man, grasping the jug and swallowing
a draught from it, “you know what
is needful. The stuff,” he added, after
repeating the application, “has put life
into me already—now give me my prisoner
and be off.”

Reuben, with the little aid that Sooduck
was able to afford him, succeeded
in lifting Emily from the waggon and
conveying her to the hut, where he
placed her on some fresh straw that
appeared to have been provided for the
purpose, and then left her, enjoining it on
the old man to watch her narrowly and
treat her kindly. After having once
gone to the waggon, he returned to advise

Sooduck to administer a sleeping potion;
`it would save trouble,' he said, `and
make safe work.'

“Never you fear, friend Reuben,” replied
Sooduck; “trust me and my dog
to guard this little she pigeon.” Harrington
thought there was in truth very
little to apprehend, and he departed exulting
in the expectation of the final
success of his savage scheme.

Emily soon recovered from her fainting
fit, but she passed the night in a state
of nervous excitement, little short of distraction.
Before morning, however, she
sunk into a quiet sleep, in consequence
of a composing draught, which Sooduck
half compelled and half persuaded her to
swallow. Repose had its usual beneficent
effects, and she awoke with the first
beam of daylight quite tranquillized. She
had now for the first time sufficient presence
of mind to examine her prison and
her jailor. The hut was about ten feet
square, and constructed of slender poles

well secured in the ground, and bent
together at the upper extremity in the
form of an arbour: the sides and top
were filled in with flexible brush-wood,
closely matted together. Some brans
and ashes, the relics of the evening's fire,
laid on and about two flat stones, which
composed the fire-place. A chair, so
rough that one might have fancied it the
first barbarous essay towards forming
that indispensable domestic article; an
iron pot, and two skillets, were the only
furniture of this tenement, rude as the
rudest structures of the primitive inhabitants.
The remnant of an Indian cake,
laid on a scorched board near the firestones,
and some trout, that had been
caught the preceding day in a mountain
stream, were languidly moving in a large
wooden bowl nearly filled with water.
Sooduck, still stupified by the copious
draughts he had taken from Reuben's
jug, was stretched on a mat before the
door—his dog laid beside him. The
faithful animal ever and anon would start
from his sleep, look inquiringly around
him, lick his master's face, and fall asleep
again on his bosom.

Sooduck the Indian (for such he was)
had all the peculiarities of his race.
Though so old that he looked as if `death
had forgotten to strike him,' his gigantic
form was still erect and muscular. In
vain Emily explored his long face, as the
increasing light of day revealed its rigid
lines and worn channels, for some trace of
humanity, some signal of compassion;
but it was a visage to pierce the heart of
one who sought for mercy with utter despair—a
visage in which brutal sensuality
was mingled with a fierceness that neither
time nor events could tame. She
remembered to have heard this man described,
and marvellous medical skill imputed
to him. She recognised some of
the signs of his profession hanging around
the interior of his hut; strings of the
rattles of rattle-snakes—skins of snakes

—snakes salted and dried in the air—
bunches of herbs and roots—the plumage
of birds—their carcasses and eggs—in
short, he seemed to have levied his contributions
equally on the elements of
earth, air, and water.

There are still, in the most civilized
parts of our country, some individuals of
the aboriginal race, who, like the remnants
of their sacrifice-rocks, remain
among us monuments of past ages. They
seek the most secluded and wildest spots,
where the face of nature, yet untouched
by man, expresses some sympathy for
them—owns an alliance with them. Some
of them are pretenders to medical skill,
and receive the significant appellation of
“root doctors.” They no longer affect
to possess the charms, and use the spells
of the ancient pow-wows, but their preparations
are made with a studied secrecy
which, by its influence over the
imaginations of the vulgar, answers the
purpose of magic. Without taxing our

credulity to believe in all the marvellous
cures that are ascribed to them, we see
no reason why the simples they extract
from the bosom of our kind mother
earth should not prove as innocent and
quite as efficacious as the drugs of the
foreign soils.

Every one has felt the inspiring influence
of returning day-light—the most
timid are emboldened by it. Emily inhaled
the cool and fragrant morning air:
she saw through the open door the dewy
foliage glittering in the sun-beams, and
the cheerful light that chequered the
shaded foot-path, and the still voice of
nature seemed to whisper encouragement
to her spirit. She heard the shrill
voice of the lark, and the clear note of
the robin, and they sounded in her ear
like the voices of her familiar friends.
Exhausted as she was by long sufferings
and recent terrors, hope nerved her to
attempt her liberty. The rattling of the
straw, as she moved from it, startled the

vigilant dog; she saw him fix his eye
upon her, and looking around for some
means of diverting his attention, she
espied a piece of dried meat hanging
over the door; she cautiously took it
down, stooped over him, and patted him
coaxingly, while she offered him the
tempting bribe, but he shook off her
arm, and with a low growl expressed his
disdain of her arts.

Finding the dog impracticable, she
trusted that he would not be able to
awaken his master from his deep sleep,
and stealing timidly around his feet, and
having attained the threshold of the
door, she ascertained by one fearful
glance, that he still slept soundly, and
rashly bounded over the door-step; but
she was suddenly arrested by the dog,
who having jealously watched her stolen
movements, now sprang after her, and
caught her garments between his teeth.
While she made an effort to extricate
herself, the yelping of the animal awoke

his master, who growled on her more
fiercely than his dog. She turned towards
him, and sunk on her knees, and
with tears and entreaties besought him,
“as he hoped for that mercy from Heaven,
which he would so soon need, that
he would have mercy on her.” He
heeded her no more than if she had spoken
to him in a dead language; and
after gazing on her for a few moments,
silently, and with a mixture of sullen
anger and brute indifference, he commended
and caressed his dog, and then
pulled the helpless despairing girl into
the hut. She sunk back on her straw
bed, while Sooduck, apparently unconscious
of her sobs, and even of her presence,
proceeded to make preparations
for his breakfast.

He first whetted his appetite by a
copious draught of Reuben's liquor, and
then kindled a fire, on which, without
any fastidious preparation, he threw the
still gasping trout. When they were

but half roasted, he offered one on a
piece of Indian cake to Emily, who, as
might be anticipated, rejected his hospitality,
though her fast had been a long
one. Quite unaffected by the scruples
of his guest, Sooduck devoured his
savage repast with a voracious appetite.
He then left the hut, secured the door
as well as he was able with a stout cord,
and attaching his dog by his collar to a
chain which was fastened in a staple
driven into one of the upright posts, he
left the trusty animal to guard his prisoner,
while he with his pole and line
sauntered to a little brook near his
dwelling, but hidden by a thick growth
of trees which it nourished on its sides.

Emily remained stretched on her rude
bed, now giving way to a burst of grief,
as the recollection of the past, or the
gloomy portents of the future over-powered
her, and now relapsing into
profound silence, rendered more grievous
by the sweet music of nature, which

struck on the poor prisoner's sickening
sense. The melody of the birds, as they
flew about her prison-house, breathed
freedom and gladness, and the brook,
which she distinctly heard as it gurgled
around the roots of the trees that impeded
its way, or bounded over the
stones that vainly obstructed its free
passage, conveyed to her the song of
liberty.

She was sometimes startled by the
shrill whistle of the Indian, who, still
pursuing his drowsy pleasure in the
shelter of the wood, sent his greeting to
his dog, whose hoarse response answered
the purpose of the sentinel call of “All
is well!”