University of Virginia Library

2. CHAPTER II.

—Byron.

—Dryden.

—Old Play.

It was a lovely day in spring,
and earth had donned her raiment
of many colors, and seemed smiling
to the whispering zephyr that
softly floated over her. The bright
sun had already passed the zenith
of the day, yet his oblique rays fell
warmly upon the great forest, extending
over the Miami Bottom,
and pierced through the foliage,
here and there, down to the earth,
and kissed the violet, the rose and
the lily, and danced to and fro to
the music of the swaying branches.

A thousand songsters, of all hues—
from the bright red-bird, the black-bird,
the paroquet of green and
gold, to the white and plaintive
dove—flew hither and thither, fluttered
among the leaves, and made
the perfumed air heavy with their
melody. Here might be seen the
bear, sitting upon his haunches, or
lazily crawling off to seek his lair;
there the timid deer, daintily cropping
the green herbage, or, startled
by some rude sound, bounding
away with an unmatched grace
and the speed of the flying arrow.
Underneath the leaves, occasionally,
lay coiled the wily copper-head,
ready to strike his victim; and the
sound of the rattle-snake could ever
and anon be heard, giving the
generous, but if unheeded, perchance
fatal, warning. Here, too,
more cunning, more deadly than
all the dread beasts or serpents of
the forest, might peradventure be
found the swarthy savage, with his
murderous weapons in hand, crawling
stealthily and silently onward,
to execute his fell design upon
some innocent and unwary foe of
his race.

But for the dangers everywhere
lurking in this forest of beauty, it
might have seemed a Paradise indeed,
unsurpassed by that primitive
Eden, where man first broke
the holy command, and entailed
misery upon his descendants even
to the last generation of time.

But notwithstanding the peril
which surrounded her, which perchance
lay hid behind each bush
and beneath each leaf, there was
one, a fairy, beautiful being, who
seemed to give no thought to danger,
as if her own fair self were an
amulet of safety. She was standing
on the bank of the Little Miami,
some two hundred rods above
its junction with the Ohio, her back
braced against a tall old Sycamore,
her head bent a little forward, and
her eyes, those sparkling orbs of
the soul, resting upon the dark
waters rolling slowly onward before
her, perchance to catch a
glimpse of her own fair face, perchance
to watch the motions of the
finny tribe, or perchance to behold
the pictures of light and shade,
which the sportive sunheams,
streaming through the rustling leaflets,
made upon the glassy surface
of the quivering stream.

Beautiful creature! how shall we
describe her? how convey, by the
dull pen, to the optical sense, the
etheriality, the reality, the sunny
brightness of the being in form divine
before us? We can give the
outline of form—we can describe
the shape of her features, the color
of her hair and eyes—yet how shall
we convey the ever-varying expression
of her countenance—the buoyant,
merry, sympathetic, versatile
soul, which animated, and made to
differ from others, the clayey tenement
which it inhabited! We cannot—we
despair of doing it; and
yet we will do, to the extent of our
ability, and let the imagination of
the reader supply the deficiency.

Know then, reader, that she
whom we have introduced to your
notice, was an angel—not of heaven,
but of earth; not pale and pensive,
with wings upon her shoulders,
as we sometimes see the tenants
of paradise represented—but
full of color, life, music, soul—a
bright being, calculated to adorn
the sphere where her lot was cast,
and yet, when done, to “shuffle off
the mortal coil,” and be equally an
ornament among immortals! Her
age was sweet, glowing, imaginative
seventeen; that age of all others
in woman, the most peculiar and
full of strange sensations; when

she stands timidly, as it were, between
two periods—girlhood and
womanhood—just pensively looking
back and bidding adieu to the
one—just brightly looking before
and greeting the other: when, if
by chance she sees through the rose
colored optics of love, the whole
pathway before her seems strewn
with bright, unfading flowers, and
every thing appears so new and
perfectly beautiful; and she dreams
not that serpents, and thorns, and
ashes, and coffin-palls, lie in her
path, to make her weep and mourn,
and sigh for the rest of the grave
to which time is bearing her.

Bright, rosy, buoyant seventeen!
how many thousands daily look
back to it with a sigh, as they think
of the hundred still unexecuted
plans laid out for coming time, and
contrast their present conditions
with those they intended to occupy!
At seventeen, all is sweet indecision,
uncertainty and inexperience;
and life is then to us only an ever-varying
kaleidescope, where every
thing we behold—no matter how
we twist and turn it by pretended
reason—is a beautiful flower; and
flower upon flower, each more
bright, lovely and fascinating than
the last; and if we dream of change
at all, it is always change for the
better.

Happy seventeen, then, was she
who stood leaning against the old
sycamore—God keep her from the
cold, stinging, unhappy experience
of many of her sex! In form she
was a beauty — light, slender,
graceful—full of youthful elasticity
and vigor—with a well developed
bust—a small, white, plump, dimpled
hand, and a foot so exquisite,
it might have rivalled that of the
divine Fanny of modern days.
Her features corresponded with
her form—were fine and comely,
and radiant with the glow of
health—but remarkable for nothing
save expression. Had they been
chisseled in marble; with the soul
absent, they would not probably
have even excited a passing remark;
but with the soul there—that ever
varying soul—they took the beholder
captive to their charms, drew him
forward as the magnet draws the
needle, held him fast as the iron
chain the prisoner. The predominant
expression of her countenance
was a bright, roguish, girlish
smile, which almost invariably hovered
around two as pretty lips as
were ever seen, and was a type of
her nature and happy heart. The
skin of her features, though somewhat
dark, was smooth and transparent,
where every thought seemed
to make a passing impression,
as the light breeze upon the still
bosom of a glassy lake. Her
cheeks were tinted with the rose,
and slightly dimpled; and her
mouth was set with a beautiful row
of pearly teeth. Her eyes were
dark and sparkling, full of vivacity
and animation, and yet so softened
by long fringy lashes, that it seemed
as if she were eternally looking
love. Her hair was a glossy, light
brown; and now, when the sunlight
fell upon it (for her hood was
held in her left hand), it gave out a
bright, golden hue. On the present
occasion, she wore a loose riding
dress, carelessly arranged,
which, together with her partially
dishevelled hair, showed that her
mind was not entirely occupied with
external appearances. In her right
hand she held the bridle rein of a
sleek, coal-black steed, from the
saddle of which she had apparently
just dismounted; and by her
side, lolling as if from hard running,
and occasionally looking up
into her sweet face, crouched a

large, Newfoundland dog. For a
moment she stood gazing into the
limpid stream, in the position we
have described her, and then giving
her head a shake, as if to throw
back the ringlets that had fallen
somewhat forward over her eyes,
she turned to her canine companion,
and, in a clear, ringing voice,
as if addressing an individual,
said:

“So, my Bowler, you think you
have had a hard chase, eh? In
faith, I thought Marston's legs
would prove too much for you?”

Here she turned, and stepping
around the tree, patted the proudly
arched neck of her horse: while the
dog arose, and approaching her,
rubbed his head in a familiar manner
against her hand.

“Ah, Bowler, dog, you look tired,”
she continued, stooping down and
playfully caressing the brute; “you
can watch, better than keep Marston's
company—particularly when
he is in such fine running trim as
now. Come, Marston,” she added,
to the beast, “let us away again,
for I trust you are now refreshed;”
and as she adjusted her dress, preparatory
to mounting, she struck
out in a full, silvery voice, in the
following

SONG.

“Well sung, pretty Kate Clarendon,”
said a deep, heavy voice
behind her.

Kate (for the fair being we have
described was none other than our
heroine), who was in the act of
mounting, started and wheeled around
with a look of alarmed surprise;
while the horse pricked up his
ears, and the dog, with a savage
growl, sprang in front of his mistress,
ready to defend her with his life.

“Be not alarmed, fair being,”
continued the strange voice; and
at the same instant, a thick cluster
of bushes, growing on the bank of
the stream some ten paces distant,
was parted by a large, sunburnt,
hairy hand, and a tall, athletic, singular
looking figure emerged therefrom.
Toward him the dog now
sprang furiously; but the next moment,
and ere he had gained half
way between his mistress and the
stranger, he dropped his tail between
his legs, and then wagging
it in token of recognition, trotted
up to the other as if to solicit a caress.

The new comer, as we have said,
was a singular looking being. In
stature he was tall—being full six
feet—and in person very ungainly.
His legs and arms, each very long
and sinewy, were joined to a crooked,
bony body. He had tremendous
breadth of shoulder, from
which he tapered down to his feet,
in shape not unlike a wedge. His
neck was slim, but full of large
muscles and veins, which seemed
to stand out from it like cords. His
head was rather large, even for his
body, with features very coarse,
and, to one unacquainted with
him, exceedingly repulsive. He
had a big, Roman nose, sallow,
sunken cheeks, and a prominent
chin, covered with a thick, coarse,
dirty, grizzly beard, which extended
down even to his broad, hard,
bronzed bosom, and added, to his
otherwise unpleasing exterior, an

almost ferocious look. About his
eyes, if indeed eyes they could be
called, he had a remarkable appearance;
and a stranger, at first
sight, would have pronounced him
totally blind. The lid of one eye
was closed entirely; and that of the
other so much so, as just to leave a
dull, lead-colored rim of the lower
part of the ball visible. To add to
this disagreeable appearance, the
nearly closed lid quivered continually,
like the leaf of the aspen;
while the ball of the eye rolled
around in every direction, as if the
owner were suffering mortal agony.
Above these lids, across the
lower portion of a high, dark,
wrinkled forehead, extended light,
shaggy brows; and his hair, which
was also light, coarse and matted,
came down to his shoulders. He
wore no hat; but instead, a strip
of deerskin, painted white, on
which were some strange devices
in black, passed across his brow,
and around his head, giving to him
an air of mystery. His costume
was as simple as an Indian's. It
consisted of a frock made of deerskin,
with the hair outside, which
was worn next his body, reached
to his knees, and was tightened
around his waist by a rough belt.
To this frock were no sleeves, and,
in consequence, his brawny arms
were entirely naked; neither did it
fit close around his neck, but left a
large portion of his breast bare
also. On his feet were moccasins,
which completed his attire; and in
his belt, instead of the usual weapons
of that day, was only a long
knife. Strapped to his back was
a rude knapsack, in which he carried
jerk, a blanket, and various
implements. In one hand (the
nails of which were very long, and
the back of which was thickly covered
with hair) he held a stick of
witch-hazel, at one end of which
were prongs, not unlike the tines
of a fork. To conclude, the age of
this strange personage might have
been forty, or perhaps fifty, so difficult
was it to determine by his
rough, weather-beaten countenance.
His voice was very deep, a
little inclined to the sepulchral—
and his language, ever good, was
often metaphorical.

Such is a description of the personal
appearance of one of the
most remarkable individuals ever
known. Who he was, or whence
he came, none could tell. Among
the settlers of the early times, he
appeared mysteriously, and as
mysteriously disappeared; and as
he pretended to be gifted with second
sight, or a sight into futurity,
there were not wanting those superstitious
enough to believe him
either a supernatural being, or
leagued with the devil. This feeling
he took care to foster, by his
acts, such as incantations, strange
mutterrings to himself, occasionally
a wild manner, and eccentricities
of various kinds. In fact, it is not to
be wondered at, that, in those times,
he should excite a feeling of awe
and superstition; for often, when
thought far distant, would he make
his appearance among a group of
individuals, who had perchance
been conversing of him; and this
so suddenly, many times, as really
to alarm them; and then again,
ere any one was aware how, as
suddenly disappear. He was sometimes
on the pretended search for
mines or money, and not unfrequently
did he excite persons to dig
for treasures. He told fortunes,
occasionally, and occasionally, too,
uttered prophesies and prophetic
warnings. Among the whites he
came and went as he chose, and
also among the savages, who respected

him as a “great medicine”
and prophet—to injure whom
would be to offend the Great Spirit.
By the latter he was called Kitchochobeka,
or Great Medicine; and by
the former, Blind Luther, the Necromancer.

As soon as Kate saw his person
in full, she said, with a gay laugh:

“ 'Pon my word, Luther, for once
you startled me, for I deemed myself
entirely alone.”

“We are never alone, Kate,” returned
the other, shaking his head
gravely; “the spirits of the dead
are always with us.”

“O, come, come,” rejoined the
fair girl, tossing her head gaily,
though not without a perceptible
shade of uneasiness in her countenance:
“Come, come, Luther, do
not seek to make me superstitious;
you can find plenty of proselytes
without me, you know. But tell
me—how long have you been concealed
in you thicket?”

“As long as it would take you to
count ten.”

“But how got you there so silently?”

“By my will, and the wings of
the wind.”

“By your will, for one thing,
most undoubtedly; but as to the
wings of the wind—why, I rather
think that a joke of yours—eh, my
conjuror?” and the gay girl closed
with a laugh.

“He to whom the future is as an
open scroll, legibly written, never
stoops to joke,” was the grave reply.

“And do you really pretend to
know the future, in sincere earnest?”

“Do you pretend to know the
voice of your own mother, girl?”

“But now,” said Kate, in a coaxing,
coquettish tone, “be honest,
Luther, for once, now do, and tell
me—have you any faith in yourself?
All in confidence, you know,
between you and I; for of course
I will never mention it. O no, I
will give you a proud example of
a woman keeping a secret;” and
the black eyes of fairy Kate sparkled
with a roguish expression.

“You jest, girl,” replied the other,
solemnly, and in an offended
tone, “with the great mysteries of
nature. Have I faith in myself?
Have you faith in what you behold?
Look yonder, and tell me
what you see!” and he pointed
with his finger toward the great
luminary of the day.

“I behold trees, and leaves, and
birds, the sky and sun,” answered
Kate, who looked in the direction
indicated by the finger of the other.

“And do you believe the things
you nave named really exist?”

“Most assuredly I do.”

“Why do you so believe?”

“Because I see them.”

“And see you nothing more?”

“Nothing of importance.”

“I do,” rejoined the Necromancer,
in a guttural voice, so changed
from the tone in which he had just
been conversing, that Kate turned
to him with an involuntary expression
of surprise and wonder; which
was not lessened, by observing him
standing with his gaze fixed on
high, in wrapt meditation, while
every feature seemed expressive of
some strange sight, and his lips
moved as if uttering words, though
no sound issued from them.

“And what do you see, strange
man?” inquired the maiden, after a
minute's pause, while a thrill of
mysterious awe made her blood
creep coldly through her veins.

“A century of futurity, and God
permitting man to seize upon the
elements and harness them to his

task,” answered Luther, in a solemn
tone. “I behold, springing
from the earth, only a few miles
distant, a great city. I behold the
light and smoke of its fires, and
hear the voices of many thousand
inhabitants, and the clink of the
hammers of industry, and see it
it gradually spreading itself, enlarging
on every hand, as the eagle
when he raises his wings to soar
on high. I behold the dust of the
earth put into a great crucible, and
lo! it comes forth another substance.
It is seized, and wrought
upon, and shapcd like no living
thing that now exists; and yet it is
to be a thing of life and motion, with
rolling legs, and speed beyond the
speed of the deer, endurance beyond
calculation, and strength exceeding
a hundred horse. Its breath,
its vitality, its soul, is vapor; and
though it travels with tearing velocity,
through mountains, over
streams, hollows and plains, dragging
a thousand times its own
weight behind it, yet so gentle is
it, when properly handled, that a
child can guide and command it;
but once let it get the upper hand,
and the strength of ten thousand
men would be no more to it than a
thread to a ship in the gale. I behold,
too, the great timbers of the
forest transformed to leviathans,
whose vital power is also vapot,
and which, with spoutings that can
be heard afar off, glide swiftly
over the bosom of rivers, against
wind and tide, and plow foaming
channels in the mighty deep, and
carry the sons of earth in their
great bosoms. I behold the red
lightning, also, drawn from the
thunder-car of heaven, and sent
courier throughout the Christian
world. I behold the great blue
vault of heaven turned to an ocean,
over which sail ten thousand ves
sels, looking down upon, forests
and mountains, that now to us
seem almost impassable barriers.
And I behold plague, and famine,
and war, and blood, and fire, and
flood, and desolation, and woe, and
crime, stalking apace, by whose
dread calls and thunderings, thrones
totter, governments of tyrants are
overthrown, and liberty shoots upward,
like a beautiful tree, and
spreads its ever-green branches
abroad to the uttermost ends of
the earth, beneath which all nations
at last repose in security, and
smoke together the calumet of
peace. And the vision has gone
from me—and all is darkness—and
I behold no more—for the great
seal of obscurity is now set upon
my sight.”

During this speech of Blind Luther,
his countenance was lighted
up with the fires of an enthusiastic
soul, until in part it had the sublime
look we conceive the seers to
have had of old, when they uttered
those great and mystic truths,
which shall descend to all generations;
and our fair heroine gazed
upon him in wonder, not unmingled
with admiration; for there
was something lofty and elevating
in his manner and strange eloquence.
As he concluded, he
waved his hand with a majestic
gesture, and then turned suddenly
to Kate.

“You think me demented—or
perhaps an idiot; yet what I have
just uttered, is written on the great
seal of the nineteenth century.
You do not understand it—you
think me an impostor, perhaps?”

“No, Luther,” answered Kate,
“not an impostor; but I fear, at
times, you let a wild imagination
get the better of your reasoning
powers.”

“It is seldom,” returned Luther,

“that I condescend to experiment,
in order to convince frail mortality
I am what I pretend; but in the
present instance I shall do so; as it
is necessary, for your future welfare,
that you believe in me, and
adhere to my instructions. Behold
my power!”

As he concluded, he brought the
fore-finger of his right hand in
front of his face, and strode slowly
toward Kate, who fixed her gaze
upon him in curious wonder.
When he had reached within a
pace of her, he paused, fastened his
eye upon hers for a moment, and
said:

“You are now under the influence
of my spirit. You have not
power to move a limb without my
consent.”

Kate made an effort to move, but
found, in truth, she had not the
command of a single muscle. She
was like a rock. Not even her
eyes could she turn away from
that strange being who stood before
her. For the first time in her
life she felt superstitious—for the
first time in her life she secretly
acknowledged a power in man
beyond the scope of reason. As
she thought upon it, her blood
ran cold, and cold drops of perspiration
stood upon her face and
body.

“And now you believe,” said the
Necromancer, at length, waving his
hand.

“I believe you are a wonderful
being,” answered the other, with a
shudder.

“Yet fear me not girl; I am your
friend. Open me your hand.”

Gazing for a few moments into
the soft, white palm, which Kate,
in compliance with his request,
now extended toward him, he said,
solemnly:

“Eventful destiny is thine—thou
of the sunny locks, fairy form, and
laughing eye!” And he proceeded
to chant the following mystical
lines:

He paused, and struck the palms
of his hands three times together.

“These are strange words, Luther,”
said Kate, “and I do not understand
them.”

“Thou shalt understand all in
time,” answered the other.

[Here he touched the band around
his head]

“My mission first is ended, and
so I leave thee. Farewell!”

He waved his hand, and turned
to depart; but just as he did so,
Kate uttered a piercing scream,
and wheeling suddenly around,
Luther perceived her features distorted
with horror—for notwithstanding
his apparent blindnes, he
could see very distinctly. She was
looking upward, at an angle of sixty
degrees; and turning his own
gaze in that direction, he beheld,
to his amazement and alarm, the
fiery, glaring eyeballs of a large

panther, crouched on a neighboring
tree, and just in the act of
springing. There was not a moment
to be lost; and catching Kate
by the arm, as though she were an
infant, he swung her upon the back
of her coal black steed, and shouted:
“Away! away!”

The next moment, horse and rider
were bounding over the plain,
and man and beast were closing
together for the death struggle; for
in his haste to spring, that his prey
might not escape him, the panther
had fallen a little short of Luther,
who, dodging quickly around the
tree, had thus time to draw his
knife and prepare himself for defense.

As to Kate, knowing that she
could render Blind Luther no personal
assistance, she rode swiftly
to an open field, some quarter of a
mile distant, where several laborers
were at work, to whom she
quickly made known the peril of
the Necromancer. Seizing their
rifles, which were always their
companions, some five or six hardy
fellows started immediately to the
assistance of Blind Luther (whom
all knew and respected), preceded
by Kate herself. When they arrived
at the spot, to their astonishment,
they found the panther lying
dead, but not a single trace of his
opponent.

“He's not here now,” said one.

“He's the devil,” returned another.

“Wonderful being,” observed a
third.

Uttering such, and similar remarks,
they spent some half an
hour in examining the animal, the
ground round about, and then returned
to their labors, more than
ever convinced that Blind Luther
was something superhuman.

As for Kate, she explained to the
others how Luther had suddenly
appeared to her, and the manner
of their separation; but of their
conversation she told nothing; and
her thoughts on what she had seen
and heard she kept to herself. As
she rode slowly over the plain,
however, to the dwelling of her
father, some half a mile distant, a
close observer might have seen a
sedateness on her countenance, a
sadness in her eye, that accorded
but ill with her naturally light-hearted,
merry look.