 | CHAPTER IX. The wept of Wish-ton-Wish |  |
9. CHAPTER IX.
When yon same star, that's westward from the pole,
Had made its course to illume that part of heaven
Where now it burns, Marcellus, and myself,
The bell then beating one—”
“Peace, break thee off; look, where it comes again!”
Hamlet.
It is our duty, as faithful historians of the events
recorded in this homely legend, to conceal no circumstance
which may throw the necessary degree
of light on its incidents, nor any opinion that may
serve for the better instruction of the reader in the
characters of its actors. In order that this obligation
may be discharged with sufficient clearness and
precision, it has now become necessary to make a
short digression from the immediate action of the
tale.
Enough has been already shown, to prove that
the Heathcotes lived at a time, and in a country,
where very quaint and peculiar religious dogmas
had the ascendancy. At a period when visible manifestations
of the goodness of Providence, not only
in spiritual but in temporal gifts, were confidently
expected and openly proclaimed, it is not at all surprising
that more evil agencies should be thought
to exercise their power in a manner that is somewhat
opposed to the experience of our own age. As
we have no wish, however, to make these pages the
medium of a theological or metaphysical controversy,
we shall deal tenderly with certain important events,
that most of the writers, who were cotemporary
with the facts, assert took place in the Colonies of
New-England, at and about the period of which we
are now writing. It is sufficiently known that the
and direct in its origin, were then believed to flourish,
in that quarter of the world, to a degree that
was probably in a very just proportion to the neglect
with which most of the other arts of life were
treated.
There is so much grave and respectable authority,
to prove the existence of these evil influences,
that it requires a pen hardier than any we wield,
to attack them without a suitable motive. “Flashy
people,” says the learned and pious Cotton Mather,
Doctor of Divinity and Fellow of the Royal Society,
“may burlesque these things; but when hundreds
of the most sober people, in a country where they
have as much mother wit, certainly, as the rest of
mankind, know them to be true, nothing but the absurd
and froward spirit of Sadducism can question them.”
Against this grave and credited authority, we pretend
to raise no question of scepticism. We submit
to the testimony of such a writer as conclusive,
though as credulity is sometimes found to be bounded
by geographical limits, and to possess something of a
national character, it may be prudent to refer certain
readers, who dwell in the other hemisphere,
to the Common Law of England, on this interesting
subject, as it is ingeniously expounded by Keeble
and approved by the twelve judges of that highly
civilized and enlightened island. With this brief
reference to so grave authorities, in support of what
we have now to offer, we shall return to the matter
of the narrative, fully trusting that its incidents
will throw some additional light on the subject of so
deep and so general concern.
Content waited respectfully until his father had
taken his seat, and then perceiving that the venerable
Puritan had no immediate intention of moving
personally in the affair, he commenced the examination
of his dependant as follows; opening the matter
by the gravity of the subject itself.
“Thou hast spoken of one met in the forest,” he
said; “proceed with the purport of that interview,
and tell us of what manner of man it was.”
Thus directly interrogated, Eben Dudley disposed
himself to give a full and satisfactory answer. First
casting a glance around, so as to embrace every
curious and eager countenance, and letting his look
rest a little longer than common on a half-interested,
half-incredulous, and a somewhat ironical dark eye,
that was riveted on his own from a distant corner
of the room, he commenced his statement as follows:
“It is known to you all,” said the borderer, “that
when we had gained the mountain-top, there was a
division of our numbers, in such a fashion that each
hunter should sweep his own range of the forest, in
order that neither moose, deer, nor bear, might have
reasonable chance of escape. Being of large frame,
and it may be of swifter foot than common, the
young Captain saw fit to command Reuben Ring to
flank one end of the line, and a man, who is nothing
short of him in either speed, or strength, to do the
same duty on the other. There was nothing particularly
worthy of mention that took place on the
flank I held, for the first two hours; unless indeed
the fact, that three several times did I fall upon a
maze of well-beaten deer-tracks, that as often led
to nothing—”
“These are signs common to the woods, and they
are no more than so many proofs that the animal
has its sports, like any other playful creature, when
not pressed by hunger or by danger,” quietly observed
Content.
“I pretend not to take those deceitful tracks
much into the account,” resumed Dudley; “but
shortly after losing the sound of the conchs, I
of hemlocks, and having the game in view, the
chase led me wide-off towards the wilderness, it may
have been the distance of two leagues.”
“And in all that time, had you no fitting moment
to strike the beast?”
“None whatever; nor, if opportunity had been
given, am I bold to say that hand of mine would
have been hardy enough to aim at its life.”
“Was there aught in the deer, that a hunter
should seek to spare it?”
“There was that in the deer, that might bring a
Christian man to much serious reflection.”
“Deal more openly with the nature and appearance
of the animal,” said Content, a little less tranquil
than usual; while the youths and maidens
placed themselves in attitudes still more strongly
denoting attention.
Dudley pondered an instant, and then he commenced
a less equivocal enumeration of what he
conceived to be the marvels of his tale.
“Firstly,” he said, “there was no trail, neither
to nor from the spot where the creature had made
its lair; secondly, when roused, it took not the
alarm, but leaped sportingly ahead, taking sufficient
care to be beyond the range of musket, without
ever becoming hid from the eye; and lastly its
manner of disappearance was as worthy of mention
as any other of its movements.”
“And in what manner didst thou lose the creature?”
“I had gotten it upon the crest of a hillock,
where true eye and steady hand might make sure
of a buck of much smaller size, when—didst hear
aught that might be accounted wonderful, at a
season of the year when the snows are still lying on
the earth?”
The auditors regarded one another curiously, each
might sustain a narrative that was fast obtaining
the seducing interest of the marvellous.
“Wast sure, Charity, that the howl we heard
from the forest was the yell of the beaten hound?”
demanded a handmaiden of Ruth, of a blue-eyed
companion, who seemed equally well disposed to
contribute her share of evidence in support of any
exciting legend.
“It might have been other,” was the answer;
“though the hunters do speak of their having beaten
the pup for restiveness.”
“There was a tumult among the echoes, that
sounded like the noises which follow the uproar of
a falling tree,” said Ruth, thoughtfully. “I remember
to have asked if it might not be that some
fierce beast had caused a general discharge of the
musketry, but my father was of opinion that death
had undermined some heavy oak.”
“At what hour might this have happened?”
“It was past the turn of the day; for it was at
the moment I bethought me of the hunger of those
who had toiled since light, in the hills.”
“That then was the sound I mean. It came not
from falling tree, but was uttered in the air, far
above all forests. Had it been heard by one better
skilled in the secrets of nature—”
“He would say it thundered;” interrupted Faith
Ring, who, unlike most of the other listeners, manifested
little of the quality which was expressed
by her name. “Truly, Eben Dudley hath done
marvels in this hunt; he hath come in with a thunderbolt
in his head, instead of a fat buck on his
shoulders!”
“Speak reverently, girl, of that thou dost not
comprehend,” said Mark Heathcote, with stern authority.
“Marvels are manifested equally to the
ignorant and to the learned; and although vain-minded
warring of the elements is no more than nature
working out its own purification, yet do we know,
from all ancient authorities, that other manifestations
are therein exhibited. Satan may have control
over the magazines of the air; he can `let off
the ordnance of Heaven.' That `the Prince of the
Powers of Darkness hath as good a share in chemistry
as goes to the making of Aurum Fulminans,'
is asserted by one of the wisest writers of our age.”
From this declaration, and more particularly from
the learning discovered in the Puritan's speech,
there was no one so hardy as to dissent. Faith was
glad to shrink back among the bevy of awe-struck
maidens; while Content, after a sufficiently respectful
pause, invited the woodsman, who was yet
teeming with the most important part of his communication,
to proceed.
“While my eye was searching for the lightning,
which should in reason have attended that thunder,
had it been uttered in the manner of nature,
the buck had vanished; and when I rushed upon
the hillock, in order to keep the game in view, a
man mounting its opposite side came so suddenly
upon me, that our muskets were at each other's
breasts before either had time for speech.”
“What manner of man was he?”
“So far as human judgment might determine, he
seemed a traveller, who was endeavoring to push
through the wilderness, from the towns below to
the distant settlements of the Bay Province; but I
account it exceeding wonderful, that the trail of a
leaping buck should have brought us together in so
unwonted a manner!”
“And didst thou see aught of the deer, after that
encounter?”
“In the first hurry of the surprise, it did certainly
appear as if an animal were bounding along the
readily one may be led by seeming probabilities
into a false conclusion, and so I account that glimpse
as delusion. No doubt, the animal, having done
that which it was commissioned to perform, did then
and there disappear, in the manner I have named.”
“It might have been thus. And the stranger—
had you discourse with him, before parting?”
“We tarried together a short hour. He related
much marvellous matter of the experiences of the
people, near the sea. According to the testimony
of the stranger, the Powers of Darkness have been
manifested in the Provinces in a hideous fashion.
Numberless of the believers have been persecuted
by the invisibles, and greatly have they endured
suffering, both in soul and body.”
“Of all this have I witnessed surprising instances,
in my day,” said Mark Heathcote, breaking the
awful stillness that succeeded the annunciation of
so heavy a visitation on the peace of the Colony,
with his deep-toned and imposing voice. “Did he,
with whom you conferred, enter into the particulars
of the trials?”
“He spoke also of certain other signs that are
thought to foretell the coming of trouble. When I
named the weary chase that I had made, and the
sound which came from the air, he said that these
would be accounted trifles in the towns of the Bay,
where the thunder and its lightnings had done much
evil work, the past season; Satan having especially
shown his spite, by causing them to do injury to the
houses of the Lord.”
“There has long been reason to think that the
pilgrimage of the righteous, into these wilds, will
be visited by some fierce opposition of those envious
natures, which, fostering evil themselves, cannot
brook to look upon the toiling of such as strive to
keep the narrow path. We will now resort to the
but which, when handled with diligence
and zeal, never fails to lead to victory.”
So saying, without waiting to hear more of the
tale of Eben Dudley, old Mark Heathcote arose,
and assuming the upright attitude usual among the
people of his sect, he addressed himself to prayer.
The grave and awe-struck but deeply confiding
congregation imitated his example, and the lips of
the Puritan had parted in the act of utterance,
when a low, faltering note, like that produced by a
wind instrument, rose on the outer air, and penetrated
to the place where the family was assembled.
A conch was suspended at the postern, in readiness
to be used by any of the family whom accident or
occupation should detain beyond the usual hour of
closing the gates; and both by the direction and
nature of this interruption, it would seem that an
applicant for admission stood at the portal. The effect
on the auditors was general and instantaneous.
Notwithstanding the recent dialogue, the young men
involuntarily sought their arms, while the startled
females huddled together like a flock of trembling
and timid deer.
“There is, of a certainty, a signal from without!”
Content at length observed, after waiting to suffer
the sounds to die away among the angles of the
buildings. “Some hunter, who hath strayed from
his path, claimeth hospitality.”
Eben Dudley shook his head like one who dissented,
but, having with all the other youths grasped
his musket, he stood as undetermined as the rest
concerning the course it was proper to pursue. It
is uncertain how long this indecision might have
continued, had no further summons been given; but
he without appeared too impatient of delay to suffer
much time to be lost. The conch sounded again,
and with far better success than before. The blast
first pierced the walls of the dwelling, rising full
and rich on the air, as though one well practised in
the use of the instrument had placed lips to the
shell.
Content would scarcely have presumed to disobey
a mandate coming from his father, had it been little
in conformity with his own intentions. But second
thoughts had already shown him the necessity of
decision, and he was in the act of motioning to
Dudley and Reuben Ring to follow, when the Puritan
bade him look to the matter. Making a sign
for the rest of the family to remain where they
were, and arming himself with a musket which had
more than once that day been proved to be of certain
aim, he led the way to the postern which has
already been so often mentioned.
“Who sounds at my gate?” demanded Content,
when he and his followers had gained a position,
under cover of a low earthen mound erected expressly
for the purpose of commanding the entrance;
“who summons a peaceful family at this hour of
the night, to their outer defences?”
“One who hath need of what he asketh, or he
would not disturb thy quiet,” was the answer.
“Open the postern, Master Heathcote, without fear;
it is a brother in the faith, and a subject of the
same laws, that asketh the boon.”
“Here is truly a Christian man without,” said
Content, hurrying to the postern; which, without a
moment's delay, he threw freely open, saying as he
did so, “enter of Heaven's mercy, and be welcome
to that we have to bestow.”
A tall, and, by his tread, a heavy man, wrapped
in a riding-cloak, bowed to the greeting, and immediately
passed beneath the low lintel. Every
eye was keenly fastened on the stranger, who, after
ascending the acclivity a short distance, paused,
carefully and scrupulously renewed the fastenings of
the gate. When bolts and bars had done their office,
Content joined his guest; and after making another
fruitless effort, by the feeble light which fell from
the stars, to scan his person, he said, in his own
meek and quiet manner—
“Thou must have great need of warmth and
nourishment. The distance from this valley to the
nearest habitation is wearisome, and one who hath
journeyed it, in a season like this, may well be nigh
fainting. Follow, and deal with that we have to
bestow as freely as if it were thine own.”
Although the stranger manifested none of that
impatience which the heir of the Wish-Ton-Wish
appeared to think one so situated might in all reason
feel, thus invited he did not hesitate to comply.
As he followed in the footsteps of his host, his tread,
however, was leisurely and dignified; and once or
twice, when the other half delayed in order to
make some passing observation of courtesy, he betrayed
no indiscreet anxiety to enter on those personal
indulgences which might in reality prove so
grateful to one who had journeyed far in an inclement
season, and along a road where neither
dwelling nor security invited repose.
“Here is warmth and a peaceful welcome,” pursued
Content, ushering his guest into the centre of
a group of fearfully anxious faces. “In a little time,
other matters shall be added to thy comfort.”
When the stranger found himself under the glare
of a powerful light, and confronted to so many
curious and wondering eyes, for a single instant he
hesitated. Then stepping calmly forward, he cast
the short riding-cloak, which had closely muffled
his features, from his shoulders, and discovered the
severe eye, the stern lineaments, and the athletic
form of him who had once before been known to
and to have quitted them so mysteriously.
The Puritan had arisen, with quiet and grave
courtesy, to receive his visiter; but obvious, powerful,
and extraordinary interest gleamed about his
usually subdued visage, when, as the features of
the other were exposed to view, he recognised the
person of the man who advanced to meet him.
“Mark Heathcote,” said the stranger, “my visit
is to thee. It may, or it may not, prove longer than
the last, as thou shalt receive my tidings. Affairs
of the last moment demand that there should be
little delay in hearing that which I have to offer.”
Notwithstanding the excess and nature of the
surprise which the veteran Mark had certainly betrayed,
it endured just long enough to allow those
wondering eyes, which were eagerly devouring all
that passed, to note its existence. Then, the subdued
and characteristic manner, which in general
marked his air, instantly returned, and with a quiet
gesture, like that which friends use in moments of
confidence and security, he beckoned to the other
to follow to an inner room. The stranger complied,
making a slight bow of recognition to Ruth, as he
passed her on the way to the apartment chosen for
an interview that was evidently intended to be
private.
| CHAPTER IX. The wept of Wish-ton-Wish | |