University of Virginia Library

23. CHAPTER XXIII.

—Gifford.

Geo. D. Prentice.

—Graham.

Dr. Dwight.

What a mighty contrast a few years
presents, in a country just merging from
a state of barbarism to one of civilization
and refinement! What a vast change from
the old primeval forest, where the native
hunters of the wood roamed unmolested
by civilized man, to the busy city with its
thousand workshops, or the quiet hamlet
of peace and plenty, or the well cultivated,
open farm of the industrious denizen of
agriculture! What wonderful change,
by the mighty wand of the wizzard of
Oriental tales, could be more grand and
imposing than the change which here, in
this bright land of the West, has been effected
by the arch-enchanter Time, in his
steady progress of eternal revolution!
Where is now the Indian—with his terrible
war-cry, his deadly rifle, his murderous
tomahawk, and his mutilating scalping-knife—which
so troubled the peace of
our fathers, and made wailing, and wo,
and terror among the pale-faces of the
frontiers? Where are now those tenants
of the wood—the panther, the bear, the
catamount, the buffalo, the deer, the copper-head
and rattlesnake—which held
their lairs in the great forest at the opening
of our story? Where, too, are those
great forests themselves, which stretched
far away, from east to west, from north to
south? Gone—all gone; vanished as a
dream; fled from before the steps of the
white man, as mists flee from the strides
of the great luminary of day.

Who that now sits in the heart of this
great city, where thousands are passing to
and fro—hears the rumbling sound of
many wheels as they roll over the stony
pavements, the voices of the venders, the
noise of industry, and beholds the display
of fashion from all quarters of the habitable
globe—can realize that barely sixty
years ago—only sixty years—in the memory
of many now living—on this very
ground swayed the inter locking branches of
a great forest, unseen by the eye, untouched
by the hand of an Anglo Saxon? Who
that now sees the bright river winding
like a belt of silver around our pleasant
banks, mirroring hundreds of houses in
its tranquil bosom, and parting its waters
to the gliding motion of hundreds of magnificent
steamers, and a thousand smaller
craft of all descriptions—can realize that
sixty years ago, the tall old trees of the
wilderness threw their cool shadows far
over its glassy tide, then disturbed only by
the fairy-like movements of the Indian
canoe? Who, say we, living here now,
can realize all this?—and yet it is but the
letter of truth itself.

Strangely have the predictions of Blind
Luther, the Necromancer, been verified.
The fifty years opening of the nineteenth
century have been pregnant with events
that have caused a world to wonder, until
wonder has ceased altogether, and man
now looks upon things beyond his first
comprehension as things which are to be.
The city which Luther beheld in his vision,
with the eye of the mind, we behold
with the naked eye of corporeal substance.
The great beast that was to be formed from
the dust of the earth, by the mechanism of
man, with rolling legs, with speed beyond
the speed of the deer, and with strength
exceeding an hundred horse—we now
behold daily. The great leviathans that
were to plow foaming channels in the
mighty deep, rush against wind and tide,
and carry the sons of earth in their great
bosoms—are already upon our waters.
The red lightning from the thunder-car
of heaven has already been drawn and sent
courier throughout the civilized earth; and
tho' ships do not yet sail in the blue ether
above us, and though tyranny still exists,
and liberty is not every where triumphant—
yet we must remember the prediction was
made for the nineteenth century, of which
more than half is yet to appear, and we

little know what is written in the yet unopened
book of time. Well may we of
the present day exclaim, in the language
of Scripture: “What shall be the end of
these things, and what the sign of their
coming.”

In the opening chapter of this history,
we presented a contrast between the ancient
and modern appearance of Columbia—which,
in itself, has altered less, perhaps,
than in the improvements that environ
it. In place of the rough and serpentine
horse-path, that connected it with
its sister village, Cincinnati, with here
and there a solitary traveler upon it—we
have now a broad, smooth and beautiful
turnpike, shooting away from a thronged
city, through the pleasant hamlet of Fulton—since
sprung into existence—and
winding round the base of Bald-Hill, at
a height sufficient to overlook the quiet
dwellings reposing below, as also the
broad plain so often mentioned—over
which roll teams of burden, stages and
omnibuses for travelers and citizens, and
carriages for pleasure; while along its
side can be traced the dark lines of a railway,
on which to and fro rush the “iron
horses” with great velocity, dragging
their weighty burdens over three hundred
miles of territory, and connecting
this point with the great lakes of the north
by a journey of only a few hours.

At the precise spot where the turnpike,
winding around the base of Bald-Hill,
takes a more northern course, you have a
delightful view of the little knoll so frequently
mentioned in these pages, as the
ground on which stood the first building
erected solely to the worship of God by
the pioneers of the Miami Valley.

This knoll is only a few yards from
the base of the hill on which you stand,
and is a spot well calculated to arrest the
gaze of the observant traveler. In appearance,
it much resembles an Indian
mound, being somewhat oval and smooth.
No building now adorns its summit; but
the ruins of one can there be seen, around
which, covered with green sward, are
scattered the graves of many who worshiped
within its walls in times gone by,
whose names, half obliterated from the
crumbling stones above them, speak the
vanity and decay of earthly things, and
the dirge to whose memories is now only
sung by the wailing wind, as it sighs
through the branches of the willow, the
beach and the locust, waving above and
shadowing their last remains.

To this knoll, then—not as it appears
now, but as it appeared at the time of
which we write, with its neat, but humble,
building of worship peeping through the
grove that covered it—we must once
more call the readers attention; and if
he like, he may stand and view it from
the self-same spot where but now he
viewed the tombs of many who were then
in their rosy prime of life.

It was a beautiful Sabbath morning in
the spring of 1792. All nature seemed
rejoicing and full of happiness. The icy
hand of winter had been lifted from the
seemingly desolate earth, and everything
appeared as joyous as on the departure
of a tyrannical ruler. The trees had put,
or were putting, forth their buds, their
blossoms and leaves, and checkering the
forest with that beautiful variety of color,
which renders it so enchanting; while the
earth had sent up her blade and her
flowers of all hues, until her surface
seemed a carpet too rich almost to be
pressed by the foot of man. The warblers
of the forest had already returned
from their journey to the sunny south,
and now thronged the trees, and made
“earth vocal with their melody.” Already
had the husbandman put his seed
into the teeming earth, and the result
was now visible in broad, green squares
of corn and wheat, destined, by the process
of a few short months, to be greeted
as the golden harvest of plenty.

We have said it was a beautiful Sabbath
morning. The sun, slowly ascending
to the zenith of his glory, rolled over
an ocean of ethereal blue, wherein not a
cloud floated to mar its beauty, or check
for an instant his warmth, or cast a single
shadow over the scene before us. A gentle
southern breeze swept down the hills
of old Kentucky, rippled the bosom of
the Ohio, and came up the valley, freighted
with the sweets of a thousand flowers
bearing to the ear the hum of ten thousand
insects, and the songs of a thousand

warblers. Save these, all sounds were
hushed.

It was Sabbath—the day set apart by
Him who made the world, for rest—and
the weekly toil of the husbandman had
ceased. Toward the little sanctuary so
often mentioned, a long line of villagers,
male and female, were taking their way,
dressed in the simple costume of the time,
with no ostentatious display of fashion to
rank one superior in point of wealth to
another. No solemn bell was sending
its vibrations upon the balmy air, to call
them to the church of God. They knew
it was the hour bordering upon worship,
and they set forth from their peaceful
dwelling places accordingly. Among
them were all classes—from the youth to
the grey-beard—from the maidon of a
few summers, to the hoary matron whose
feet already pressed the verge of the grave.
Some were grave, and some were gay—
for all of course did not feel the solemnity
of the day—yet none behaved with indecorum.

In the front and rear of the church
were stationed sentinels, with their rifles
upon their shoulders, past which the male
portion of the villagers bore their own
arms, and, ascending the little knoll, disappeared
one after another, within the
rude walls consecrated to the worship of
the Most High.

Around the door of the church, however,
a small group of youths and maidens
lingered, with their eyes mostly bent
in one direction, as if expecting some person
or persons from that quarter. At
length one exclaimed, “They come;”
and the speaker pointed with his finger
to a man of venerable appearance, some
fifty rods distant, who was seen coming
up the valley, accompanied by two couple
of both sexes. As this party ascended the
knoll, the sentinels they passed, paused,
touched their hats respectfully, and resumed
their patrol, while the group at
the door disappeared within.

In a short time, the last party crossed
the threshold of the church, amid a
profound silence, and were met on all
sides by an artillery of eager eyes, from
those already there assembled. A rude
altar at the farther end of the church,
overlooked the rough benches in front, on
which the congregation was seated—and
toward this the venerable pastor and his
young companions directed their steps.
At the place mentioned, the man of God
paused, and facing the assemblage, raised
his hands aloft. Simultaneously all rose
to their feet, and, after a short silence, his
tremulous voice was heard in solemn
prayer. This ended, the assemblage,
with the exception of the pious pastor and
the group which had accompanied him to
the altar, resumed their seats. Glancing
round him for a moment, the divine said:

“Friends, it now becomes my pleasant
but solemn duty, to unite in the holy rite
of marriage, Ernest Clifton and Kate
Clarendon, Albert Danvers and Mary
Argate.”

Saying this, he addressed himsef to the
party before him, and in a few minutes
the hands which were clasped together,
clasped those of partners for life. The
ceremony over, the newly married took
seats arranged behind them, while the
pastor, ascending the pulpit, read a text
suitable to the occasion, from which he
delivered a most eloquent and able discourse.

On the return of Kate from captivity,
she, at the earnest solicitation of young
Danvers and his sister, had taken up her
abode in their father's dwelling, where for
many weeks she labored under a strong
nervous affection, caused by the many
exciting events which we have chronicled,
among the most prominent of which was
the horrible death of her mother. Grief,
violent, and some feared fatal, for a long
time rankled deeply in her affectionate
breast, and hours, and days, and weeks of
anguish had been apportioned her. But
Time, the great healer or destroyer of
hearts diseased, had gradually softened
and soothed her feelings, and taught her
the vanity of mourning so severely an
earthly loss, which a few short years, at
the most, would repay in the gain of a
never ending eternity, and a meeting with
those she loved, to part no more forever.

Moreover, all she loved were not gone
Around, on every side, she felt she had
kind, sympathizing friends, for whose
sakes it was her duty to appear somewhat

resigned and cheerful; but, above all others,
for the sake of one, dear and beloved,
whose happiness depended upon her own,
and to whom she now felt her own,
drawn with a peculiar, sublime and almost
idolatrous affection, which she had
never before known for earthly being.
She still had something to live for; an
object to love, and feel that in turn she
was loved; and the thought of the living
gradually took the place of the dead.
Spring came, and she was happy in the
embrace of one she could call her own
forever.

Throughout the winter, Ernest had remained
in the fort at Cincinnati, though
his visits to Columbia, on one pretense or
another, had not been like angels' visits,
“few and far between;” but, on the contrary,
had been almost of daily occurrence.
The many mysterious words of
Luther had made a deep impression upon
his mind. He had thought of them by
day, and dreamed of them by night. Could
they have any meaning? were they true?
A thousand times had he been tempted to
open the mysterious box in his possession,
and know for a certainty; but as often a
moral sense of obligation to the commands
of one who had so befriended, restrained
him.

“I will not,” he said to himself, “until
the time set for the purpose has expired,
and then I will know all.”

It was late on the evening succeeding the
marriage of Clifton, and in a rude apartment
of a dwelling, in the village so often
named, sat the young officer, by the side
of a table on which stood a light, throwing
its gleams upon his noble and manly
countenance, as, with the chin resting on
his hand, he contemplated in silence several
manuscript papers lying before him.
The door opened, and a bright, fairy-like
being glided up to his side, and a soft,
white hand was laid upon his shoulder.

Ernest started, and looking up, exclaimed,
in rapture:

“Bless you, my own, dearest Kate—
my wife!—now I can make you happy;”
and as he pressed his lips to hers, a tear
of joy stood in his eye.

“Ah! dear Ernest,” answered Kate in
a silvery voice, gazing tenderly upon
him, and parting the hair from his forehead;
“why do you say now? Could
you not always make me happy? Could
I be otherwise with you?”

“But now more than ever! You remember
the words and the gift of Luther,
dearest?”

“I do: the latter a silver box.”

“Aye, and the contents of that box are
now before you. First, here,” continued
Ernest, taking up a scroll; “on this are
my horoscope and destiny written. It
looks old, and bears date 1770. In it I
am styled Ernest Bellington, son of Arthur
Lord Bellington, twin brother of Albert
Bellington, and grandson of Edgar,
Earl of Killingworth. The next, in like
manner, is the horoscope of my brother,
since my foe, in the person of Rashton
Moody. The third is your own, and your
destiny is marked to run parallel to mine.
But most important of all,” pursued Ernest,
with sparkling eyes, “is this;” and
he held aloft a parchment; “this, which
proves to my satisfaction my birthright.”

“O, read it!” exclaimed Kate, with interest,
seating herself by his side, and
looking fondly upon him.

“A kiss first, my little wife. There,
now listen!” and Ernest began the unraveling
of a tale of mystery.

The story purported to be written by
Luther Boreancy, othewise Blind Luther.
It was long, sometimes so metaphorical
as to render the sense almost obscure,
and was altogether a remarkable
document. We shall not follow it in detail,
but will give the contents in brief, in
our own language.

It stated that Arthur Lord Bellington,
son of Edgar Earl of Killingworth, being
an only son, married, contrary to his
father's desire, an accomplished lady of
small fortune and inferior birth. A quarrel
ensued, father and son became estranged,
and finally, after the birth of twin
sons, the latter determined to embark for
America. Before he quitted the country,
however, he took his infants to a magistrate,
and had tattooed in his presence,
and in the presence of many witnesses, under
the left arm of each, the armorial
bearings of his house, and the initial letters
of their names. Papers, stating the

whole affair, were then drawn up, and
signed by all present, of which a copy
was taken and deposited in the archives
of the capital. This accomplished, he
embarked for America with his family.
On board the same vessel which carried
him out, was one who had made the tour
of the world, and learned astrology and
the occult sciences of the Egyptions. He
was consulted, and he in turn consulted
the stars, and predicted the sudden death
of the young lord and his lady. It came.
Ship fever broke out, and Lady Bellington
sickened and died. Lord Bellington
was attacked, and on his death-bed he
called the astrologer to him, and gave his
infants into his charge, with all the proofs
concerning them, together with a large
purse of money, and begged that he
would have them educated and brought
up separately, neither to know of his
birthright until the Earl of Killingworth
should be no more. The astrologer promised,
Lord Bellington died, and the former
kept his word. By a train of circumstances
useless for us to mention, all came to
the West, and the rest the reader knows.

Such, in short, was the substance of the
document which Ernest now read to his
bride; and accompanying it were all the
proofs, and a statement that the old peer
was now deceased.

“And so, I suppose, the astrologer
here mentioned is none other than our
Necromancer?” said Kate inquiringly.

“I infer, from what I have read,” answered
Ernest, “they are one and the
same; but further than that, the mystery
seems as dark as ever. God bless him,
though, whoever he is! I should like to
behold him once again, whether mortal
or spirit!”

“Behold, then! for he is mortal and
here,” said a deep voice, close at hand.

Ernest sprang to his feet, with an exclamation
of surprise, while Kate uttered
a cry of terror. Behind them stood Luther,
quietly leaning on his stick of witchhazel,
and the door, through which he
had softly entered, was partly ajar.

“Good heavens!” ejaculated Ernest,
fastening his eyes steadily upon Luther,
with an expression of awe, “are you
really flesh and blood?”

“Feel and have faith!” said Luther,
advancing and extending his dark hand
to the young officer.

Ernest touched, pressed it in his own,
and replied:

“There is no doubting that. But tell
me, mysterious being, who art thou?”

“All thou knowest is thine,” replied
Luther, gravely. “What thou knowest
not, is shut from thee forever. Question
no further. I perceive thou didst obey
my request;” and he pointed to the papers
on the table. “How like you your
destiny?”

“It is better than I ever hoped for
in my dreams,” replied Clifton rapturouslv.

“Wear well thy honors, and when
thou art rich, forget not the poor. Whatever
the past may have been, the future
promises everything. With thy new fortunes
and bride, thou must become the
envied of mortals. Farewell! I bid thee
farewell, and go forever from thy sight.
Sweet lady (turning to Kate), we shall
meet no more on earth. I need not tell
thee to be true and loyal to thy husband,
nor him to do the like by thee. I make
one prediction more. The world shall
yet praise the wealth, the bounty, the
beauty and virtue of the Earl and the
Countess of Killingworth. Farewell!”

As he spoke he turned and strode out
of the apartment.

“Stay!” cried Clifton, who had yet many
questions to ask—but Luther paused not.

Ernest and Kate sprang to the door.
The moon, already on the wane, faintly
traced the outline of a tall figure, gliding
toward the wood. One moment, and it
disappeared, and blind Luther was seen
nevermore by those who looked upon
him as a guardian angel and benefactor.

Many long years after these events,
however, a strange figure, answering his
description, was discovered in the wood
by an old hunter. He was lying on his
side, his head resting upon an old knapsack.
On examination, it was found that
he had been a long time dead. On the
spot where he ceased to breathe, a little
rise of earth, and two rough stones at his
head and feet, mark out the last earthly
resting place of a once mysterious being.

About his person were found some old
papers, so worn and soiled by time, that
the writing thereof was mostly illegible.
From what little could be deciphered, it
was conjectured by some that he was once
a nobleman of distinction, whom one
cause or another had driven to this country,
and that, becoming partially deranged,
he had conducted himself in the manner
we have shown. Others believed him
possessed of supernatural powers, and
there were various opinions and conjectures;
but all amounted to surmises only;
for none ever knew who he was, or
whence he came.

Soon after his marriage, Ernest threw
up his commission in the army, and, with
his lovely wife, and her faithful serving
man, Ichabod Longtree, set out for Ireland,
his ancestral home. The old peer
was dead, and the young lord had but little
difficulty in proving his identity, and
taking his place among the proudest of
the realm. A long rent-roll secured him
a vast income, and he lived in lordly
splendor, the happiest of mortals. The
Countess of Killingsworth proved a dutiful
and loving wife; and the old Earl
was heard in after years to tell his grandchildren,
he blessed the hour when first
his eyes beheld the fainting form of the
lovely Kate Clarendon.