 | CHAPTER XIV. Home as found |  |
14. CHAPTER XIV.
“We'll follow Cade—we'll follow Cade.”
Mob.
“The views of this Mr. Bragg, and of our old fellow-traveller,
Mr. Dodge, appear to be peculiar on
the subject of religious forms,” observed Sir George
Templemore, as he descended the little lawn before
the Wigwam, in company with the three ladies,
Paul Powis, and John Effingham, on their way to
the lake. “I should think it would be difficult to
find another Christian, who objects to kneeling at
prayer.”
“Therein you are mistaken, Templemore,” answered
Paul; “for this country, to say nothing of one
sect which holds it in utter abomination, is filled with
them. Our pious ancestors, like neophytes, ran into
extremes, on the subject of forms, as well as in other
matters. When you go to Philadelphia, Miss Effingham,
you will see an instance of a most ludicrous nature—ludicrous,
if there were not something painfully
revolting mingled with it—of the manner in which
men can strain at a gnat and swallow a camel; and
with our own church.”
It was music to Eve's ears, to hear Paul Powis
speak of his pious ancestors, as being American, and
to find him so thoroughly identifying himself with her
own native land; for, while condemning so many of
its practices, and so much alive to its absurdities and
contradictions, our heroine had seen too much of
other countries, not to take an honest pride in the real
excellencies of her own. There was, also, a soothing
pleasure in hearing him openly own that he belonged
to the same church as herself.
“And what is there ridiculous in Philadelphia, in
particular, and in connection with our own church?”
she asked. “I am not so easily disposed to find fault
where the venerable church is concerned.”
“You know that the Protestants, in their horror of
idolatry, discontinued, in a great degree, the use of
the cross, as an outward religious symbol; and that
there was probably a time when there was not a single
cross to be seen in the whole of a country that was
settled by those who made a profession of love for
Christ, and a dependence on his expiation, the great
business of their lives?”
“Certainly. We all know our predecessors were
a little over-rigid and scrupulous on all the points connected
with outward appearances.”
“They certainly contrived to render the religious
rites as little pleasing to the senses as possible, by aiming
at a sublimation that peculiarly favours spiritual
pride and a pious conceit. I do not know whether
travelling has had the same effect on you, as it has
produced on me; but I find all my inherited antipathies
to the mere visible representation of the cross,
superseded by a sort of solemn affection for it, as a
symbol, when it is plain, and unaccompanied by any
of those bloody and minute accessories that are so
often seen around it in Catholic countries. The German
a cross, first cured me of the disrelish I imbibed, on
this subject, in childhood.”
“We, also, I think, cousin John, were agreeably
struck with the same usage in Germany. From feeling
a species of nervousness at the sight of a cross, I
came to love to see it; and I think you must have
undergone a similar change; for I have discovered
no less than three among the ornaments of the great
window of the entrance tower, at the Wigwam.”
“You might have discovered one, also, in every
door of the building, whether great or small, young
lady. Our pious ancestors, as Powis calls them,
much of whose piety, by the way, was any thing but
meliorated with spiritual humility or Christian charity,
were such ignoramuses as to set up crosses in every
door they built, even while they veiled their eyes in
holy horror whenever the sacred symbol was seen in
a church.”
“Every door!” exclaimed the Protestants of the
party.
“Yes, literally every door, I might almost say;
certainly every panelled door that was constructed
twenty years since. I first discovered the secret of
our blunder, when visiting a castle in France, that
dated back from the time of the crusade. It was a
château of the Montmorencies, that had passed into
the hands of the Condé family by marriage; and the
courtly old domestic, who showed me the curiosities,
pointed out to me the stone croix in the windows,
which has caused the latter to be called croisées, as a
pious usage of the crusaders. Turning to a door, I
saw the same crosses in the wooden stiles; and if you
cast an eye on the first humble door that you may
pass in this village, you will detect the same symbol
staring you boldly in the face, in the very heart of a
population that would almost expire at the thoughts
thresholds.”
The whole party expressed their surprise; but
the first door they passed corroborated this account,
and proved the accuracy of John Effingham's statements.
Catholic zeal and ingenuity could not have
wrought more accurate symbols of this peculiar sign
of the sect; and yet, here they stood, staring every
passenger in the face, as if mocking the ignorant and
exaggerated pretension which would lay undue stress
on the minor points of a religion, the essence of which
was faith and humility.
“And the Philadelphia church?” said Eve, quickly,
so soon as her curiosity was satisfied on the subject
of the door; “I am now more impatient than ever, to
learn what silly blunder we have also committed
there.”
“Impious would almost be a better term,” Paul
answered. “The only church spire that existed for
half a century, in that town, was surmounted by a
mitre, while the cross was studiously rejected!”
A silence followed; for there is often more true argument
in simply presenting the facts of a case, than
in all the rhetoric and logic that could be urged, by
way of auxiliaries. Every one saw the egregious
folly, not to say presumption, of the mistake; and at
the moment, every one wondered how a commonsense
community could have committed so indecent a
blunder. We are mistaken. There was an exception
to the general feeling in the person of Sir George
Templemore. To his church-and-state notions, and
anti-catholic prejudices, which were quite as much
political as religious, there was every thing that was
proper, and nothing that was wrong, in rejecting a
cross for a mitre.
“The church, no doubt, was Episcopal, Powis,”
he remarked, “and it was not Roman. What better
symbol than the mitre could be chosen?”
“Now I reflect, it is not so very strange,” said
Grace, eagerly, “for you will remember, Mr. Effingham,
that Protestants attach the idea of idolatry to the
cross, as it is used by Catholics.”
“And of bishops, peers in parliament, church and
state, to a mitre.”
“Yes, but the church in question I have seen; and
it was erected before the war of the revolution. It
was an English rather than an American church.”
“It was, indeed, an English church, rather than
an American; and Templemore is very right to defend
it, mitre and all.”
“I dare say, a bishop officiated at its altar?”
“I dare say—nay, I know, he did; and, I will
add, he would rather that the mitre were two hundred
feet in the air, than down on his own simple,
white-haired, apostolical-looking head. But enough
of divinity for the morning; yonder is Tom with the
boat, let us to our oars.”
The party were now on the little wharf that served
as a village-landing, and the boatman mentioned lay
off, in waiting for the arrival of his fare. Instead of
using him, however, the man was dismissed; the gentlemen
preferring to handle the oars themselves.
Aquatic excursions were of constant occurrence in
the warm months, on that beautifully limpid sheet of
water, and it was the practice to dispense with the
regular boatmen, whenever good oarsmen were to be
found among the company.
As soon as the light buoyant skiff was brought to
the side of the wharf, the whole party embarked; and
Paul and the baronet taking the oars, they soon
urged the boat from the shore.
“The world is getting to be too confined for the
adventurous spirit of the age,” said Sir George, as he
and his companion pulled leisurely along, taking the
direction of the eastern shore, beneath the forest-clad
cliffs of which the ladies had expressed a wish to be
together on a mountain lake of America, after having
boated as companions on the coast of Africa, and on
the margin of the Great Desert. Polynesia, and
Terra Australis, may yet see us in company, as hardy
cruisers.”
“The spirit of the age is, indeed, working wonders
in the way you mean,” said John Effingham.
“Countries of which our fathers merely read, are getting
to be as familiar as our own homes to their sons;
and, with you, one can hardly foresee to what a pass
of adventure the generation or two that will follow
us may not reach.”
“Vraiment, c'est fort extraordinaire de se trouver sur
un lac Americain,” exclaimed Mademoiselle Viefville.
“More extraordinary than to find one's self on a
Swiss lake, think you, my dear Mademoiselle Viefville?”
“Non, non, mais tout aussi extraordinaire pour une
Parisienne.”
“I am now about to introduce you, Mr. John Effingham
and Miss Van Cortlandt excepted,” Eve continued,
“to the wonders and curiosities of this lake
and region. There, near the small house that is
erected over a spring of delicious water, stood the
hut of Natty Bumppo, once known throughout all these
mountains as a renowned hunter; a man who had
the simplicity of a woodsman, the heroism of a savage,
the faith of a Christian, and the feelings of a poet.
A better than he, after his fashion, seldom lived.”
“We have all heard of him,” said the baronet,
looking round curiously; “and must all feel an interest
in what concerns so brave and just a man. I
would I could see his counterpart.”
“Alas!” said John Effingham, “the days of the
`Leather-stockings' have passed away. He preceded
me in life, and I see few remains of his character
in a region where speculation is more rife than moralizing,
Natty probably chose that spot for his hut on account
of the vicinity of the spring: is it not so, Miss Effingham?”
“He did; and yonder little fountain that you see
gushing from the thicket, and which comes glancing
like diamonds into the lake, is called the `Fairy
Spring,' by some flight of poetry that, like so many
of our feelings, must have been imported; for I see
no connection between the name and the character
of the country, fairies having never been known, even
by tradition, in Otsego.”
The boat now came under a shore where the trees
fringed the very water, frequently overhanging the
element that mirrored their fantastic forms. At this
point, a light skiff was moving leisurely along in
their own direction, but a short distance in advance.
On a hint from John Effingham, a few vigorous
strokes of the oars brought the two boats near each
other.
“This is the flag-ship,” half whispered John Effingham,
as they came near the other skiff, “containing no
less a man than the `commodore.' Formerly, the
chief of the lake was an admiral, but that was in
times when, living nearer to the monarchy, we retained
some of the European terms; now, no man
rises higher than a commodore in America, whether
it be on the ocean or on the Otsego, whatever may be
his merits or his services. A charming day, commodore;
I rejoice to see you still afloat, in your
glory.”
The commodore, a tall, thin, athletic man of seventy,
with a white head, and movements that were
quick as those of a boy, had not glanced aside at the
approaching boat, until he was thus saluted in the
well-known voice of John Effingham. He then turned
his head, however, and scanning the whole party
through his spectacles, he smiled good-naturedly, made
with the other, for he stood erect and straight in the
stern of his skiff, and answered heartily—
“A fine morning, Mr. John, and the right time of
the moon for boating. This is not a real scientific
day for the fish, perhaps; but I have just come out to
see that all the points and bays are in their right
places.”
“How is it, commodore, that the water near the
village is less limpid than common, and that even up
here, we see so many specks floating on its surface?”
“What a question for Mr. John Effingham to ask
on his native water! So much for travelling in far
countries, where a man forgets quite as much as he
learns, I fear.” Here the commodore turned entirely
round, and raising an open hand in an oratorical manner,
he added,—“You must know, ladies and gentlemen,
that the lake is in blow.”
“In blow, commodore! I did not know that the
lake bore its blossoms.”
“It does, sir, nevertheless. Ay, Mr. John, and its
fruits, too; but the last must be dug for, like potatoes.
There have been no miraculous draughts of
the fishes, of late years, in the Otsego, ladies and gentlemen;
but it needs the scientific touch, and the knowledge
of baits, to get a fin of any of your true game
above the water, now-a-days. Well, I have had the
head of the sogdollager thrice in the open air, in my
time; though I am told the admiral actually got hold
of him once with his hand.”
“The sogdollager,” said Eve, much amused with
the singularities of the man, whom she perfectly remembered
to have been commander of the lake, even
in her own infancy; “we must be indebted to you
for an explanation of that term, as well as for the
meaning of your allusion to the head and the open
air.”
“A sogdollager, young lady, is the perfection of a
thing. I know Mr. Grant used to say there was no
such word in the dictionary; but then there are many
words that ought to be in the dictionaries that have
been forgotten by the printers. In the way of salmon
trout, the sogdollager is their commodore. Now, ladies
and gentlemen, I should not like to tell you all I
know about the patriarch of this lake, for you would
scarcely believe me; but if he would not weigh a
hundred when cleaned, there is not an ox in the county
that will weigh a pound when slaughtered.”
“You say you had his head above water?” said
John Effingham.
“Thrice, Mr. John. The first time was thirty
years ago; and I confess I lost him, on that occasion,
by want of science; for the art is not learned in
a day, and I had then followed the business but ten
years. The second time was five years later; and I
had then been fishing expressly for the old gentleman,
about a month. For near a minute, it was a matter
of dispute between us, whether he should come out
of the lake or I go into it; but I actually got his gills
in plain sight. That was a glorious haul! Washingington
did not feel better the night Cornwallis surrendered,
than I felt on that great occasion!”
“One never knows the feelings of another, it
seems. I should have thought disappointment at the
loss would have been the prevailing sentiment on that
great occasion, as you so justly term it.”
“So it would have been, Mr. John, with an unscientific
fisherman; but we experienced hands know
better. Glory is to be measured by quality, and not
by quantity, ladies and gentlemen; and I look on it
as a greater feather in a man's cap, to see the sogdollager's
head above water, for half a minute, than
to bring home a skiff filled with pickerel. The last
time I got a look at the old gentleman, I did not try
to get him into the boat, but we sat and conversed
skiff.”
“Conversed!” exclaimed Eve, “and with a fish,
too! What could the animal have to say!”
“Why, young lady, a fish can talk as well as one
of ourselves; the only difficulty is to understand what
he says. I have heard the old settlers affirm, that the
Leather-stocking used to talk for hours at a time, with
the animals of the forest.”
“You knew the Leather-stocking, commodore?”
“No, young lady, I am sorry to say I never had
the pleasure of looking on him even. He was a great
man! They may talk of their Jeffersons and Jacksons,
but I set down Washington and Natty Bumppo
as the two only really great men of my time.”
“What do you think of Bonaparte, commodore?”
inquired Paul.
“Well, sir, Bonaparte had some strong points
about him, I do really believe. But he could have
been nothing to the Leather-stocking, in the woods!
It's no great matter, young gentleman, to be a great
man among your inhabitants of cities—what I call
umbrella people. Why, Natty was almost as great
with the spear as with the rifle; though I never
heard that he got a sight of the sogdollager.”
“We shall meet again this summer, commodore,”
said John Effingham; “the ladies wish to hear the
echoes, and we must leave you.”
“All very natural, Mr. John,” returned the commodore,
laughing, and again flourishing his hand in
his own peculiar manner. “The women all love to
hear the echoes, for they are not satisfied with what
they have once said, but they like to hear it over
again. I never knew a lady come on the Otsego, but
one of the first things she did was to get paddled to
the Speaking Rocks, to have a chat with herself. They
come out in such numbers, sometimes, and then all
talk at once, in a way quite to confuse the echo. I
have now got concerning these voices.”
“I cannot say I have ever heard more than that
they are some of the most perfect echoes known;”
answered Eve, turning her body, so as to face the
old man, as the skiff of the party passed that of the
veteran fisherman.
“Some people maintain that there is no echo at all,
and that the sounds we hear come from the spirit of
the Leather-stocking, which keeps about its old haunts,
and repeats every thing we say, in mockery of our
invasion of the woods. I do not say this notion is
true, or that it is my own; but we all know that Natty
did dislike to see a new settler arrive in the mountains,
and that he loved a tree as a muskrat loves
water. They show a pine up here on the side of the
Vision, which he notched at every new-comer, until
reaching seventeen, his honest old heart could go no
farther, and he gave the matter up in despair.”
“This is so poetical, commodore, it is a pity it
cannot be true. I like this explanation of the `Speaking
Rocks,' much better than that implied by the name
of `Fairy Spring.”'
“You are quite right, young lady,” called out the
fisherman, as the boats separated still farther; “there
never was any fairy known in Otsego; but the time
has been when we could boast of a Natty Bumppo.”
Here the commodore flourished his hand again,
and Eve nodded her adieus. The skiff of the party
continued to pull slowly along the fringed shore, occasionally
sheering more into the lake, to avoid some
overhanging and nearly horizontal tree, and then returning
so closely to the land, as barely to clear the
pebbles of the narrow strand with the oar.
Eve thought she had never beheld a more wild or
beautifully variegated foliage, than that which the
whole leafy mountain-side presented. More than half
of the forest of tall, solemn pines, that had veiled the
disappeared; but, agreeably to one of the mysterious
laws by which nature is governed, a rich second
growth, that included nearly every variety of American
wood, had shot up in their places. The rich
Rembrandt-like hemlocks, in particular, were perfectly
beautiful, contrasting admirably with the livelier
tints of the various deciduous trees. Here and
there, some flowering shrub rendered the picture
gay, while masses of the rich chestnut, in blossom,
lay in clouds of natural glory among the dark tops of
the pines.
The gentlemen pulled the light skiff fully a mile
under this overhanging foliage, occasionally frightening
some migratory bird from a branch, or a water-fowl
from the narrow strand. At length, John Effingham
desired them to cease rowing, and managing
the skiff for a minute or two with the paddle which
he had used in steering, he desired the whole party
to look up, announcing to them that they were beneath
the `Silent Pine.'
A common exclamation of pleasure succeeded the
upward glance; for it is seldom that a tree is seen to
more advantage than that which immediately attracted
every eye. The pine stood on the bank, with its
roots embedded in the earth, a few feet higher than the
level of the lake, but in such a situation as to bring
the distance above the water into the apparent height
of the tree. Like all of its kind that grows in the
dense forests of America, its increase, for a thousand
years, had been upward; and it now stood in solitary
glory, a memorial of what the mountains which were
yet so rich in vegetation had really been in their days
of nature and pride. For near a hundred feet above
the eye, the even round trunk was branchless, and
then commenced the dark-green masses of foliage,
which clung around the stem like smoke ascending in
wreaths. The tall column-like tree had inclined towards
and it now so far overhung the lake, that its summit
may have been some ten or fifteen feet without the
base. A gentle, graceful curve added to the effect
of this variation from the perpendicular, and infused
enough of the fearful into the grand, to render the
picture sublime. Although there was not a breath
of wind on the lake, the currents were strong enough
above the forest to move this lofty object, and it was
just possible to detect a slight, graceful yielding of
the very uppermost boughs to the passing air.
“This pine is ill-named,” cried Sir George Templemore,
“for it is the most eloquent tree eye of mine
has ever looked on!”
“It is, indeed, eloquent,” answered Eve; “one
hears it speak even now of the fierce storms that have
whistled round its tops—of the seasons that have
passed since it extricated that verdant cap from the
throng of sisters that grew beneath it, and of all that
has passed on the Otsego, when this limpid lake lay,
like a gem embedded in the forest. When the Conqueror
first landed in England, this tree stood on the
spot where it now stands! Here, then, is at last,
an American antiquity!”
“A true and regulated taste, Miss Effingham,”
said Paul, “has pointed out to you one of the real
charms of the country. Were we to think less of
the artificial, and more of our natural excellencies,
we should render ourselves less liable to criticism.”
Eve was never inattentive when Paul spoke; and
her colour heightened, as he paid this compliment to
her taste, but still her soft blue eye was riveted on
the pine.
“Silent it may be, in one respect, but it is, indeed,
all eloquence in another,” she resumed, with a fervour
that was not lessened by Paul's remark. “That
crest of verdure, which resembles a plume of feathers,
“I have never known a person of any poetry, who
came under this tree,” said John Effingham, “that
did not fall into this very train of thought. I once
brought a man celebrated for his genius here, and,
after gazing for a minute or two at the high, green
tuft that tops the tree, he exclaimed, `that mass of
green waved there in the fierce light when Columbus
first ventured into the unknown sea.' It is, indeed,
eloquent; for it tells the same glowing tale to all who
approach it—a tale fraught with feeling and recollections.”
“And yet its silence is, after all, its eloquence,”
added Paul; “and the name is not so misplaced as
one might at first think.”
“It probably obtained its name from some fancied
contrast to the garrulous rocks that lie up yonder,
half concealed by the forest. If you will ply the
oars, gentlemen, we will now hold a little communion
with the spirit of the Leather-stocking.”
The young men complied; and in about five minutes,
the skiff was off in the lake, at the distance of
fifty rods from the shore, where the whole mountainside
came at one glance into the view. Here they
lay on their oars, and John Effingham called out to
the rocks a “good morning,” in a clear distinct
voice. The mocking sounds were thrown back
again, with a closeness of resemblance that actually
startled the novice. Then followed other calls and
other repetitions of the echoes, which did not lose the
minutest intonation of the voice.
“This actually surpasses the celebrated echoes of
the Rhine,” cried the delighted Eve; “for, though
those do give the strains of the bugle so clearly, I do
not think they answer to the voice with so much
fidelity.”
“You are very right, Eve,” replied her kinsman,
an echo is to be heard as at these speaking
rocks. By increasing our distance to half a mile,
and using a bugle, as I well know, from actual experiment,
we should get back entire passages of an
air. The interval between the sound and the echo,
too, would be distinct, and would give time for an
undivided attention. Whatever may be said of the
`pine,' these rocks are most aptly named; and if the
spirit of Leather-stocking has any concern with the
matter, he is a mocking spirit.”
John Effingham now looked at his watch, and
then he explained to the party a pleasure he had in
store for them. On a sort of small, public promenade,
that lay at the point where the river flowed
out of the lake, stood a rude shell of a building that
was called the “gun-house.” Here, a speaking picture
of the entire security of the country, from foes
within as well as from foes without, were kept two
or three pieces of field artillery, with doors so open
that any one might enter the building, and even use
the guns at will, although they properly belonged to
the organized corps of the state.
One of these guns had been sent a short distance
down the valley; and John Effingham informed his
companions that they might look momentarily for its
reports to arouse the echoes of the mountains. He
was still speaking when the gun was fired, its muzzle
being turned eastward. The sound first reached the
side of the Vision, abreast of the village, whence the
reverberations reissued, and rolled along the range,
from cave to cave, and cliff to cliff, and wood to
wood, until they were lost, like distant thunder, two
or three leagues to the northward. The experiment
was thrice repeated, and always with the same
magnificent effect, the western hills actually echoing
the echoes of the eastern mountains, like the dying
strains of some falling music.
“Such a locality would be a treasure in the vicinity
of a melo-dramatic theatre,” said Paul, laughing, “for
certainly, no artificial thunder I have ever heard has
equalled this. This sheet of water might even receive
a gondola.”
“And yet, I fear one accustomed to the boundless
horizon of the ocean, might in time weary of it,” answered
John Effingham, significantly.
Paul made no answer; and the party rowed away
in silence.
“Yonder is the spot where we have so long been
accustomed to resort for Pic-Nics,” said Eve, pointing
out a lovely place, that was beautifully shaded by old
oaks, and on which stood a rude house that was much
dilapidated, and indeed injured, by the hands of man.
John Effingham smiled, as his cousin showed the
place to her companions, promising them an early
and a nearer view of its beauties.
“By the way, Miss Effingham,” he said, “I suppose
you flatter yourself with being the heiress of that
desirable retreat?”
“It is very natural that, at some day, though I
trust a very distant one, I should succeed to that
which belongs to my dear father.”
“Both natural and legal, my fair cousin; but you
are yet to learn that there is a power that threatens
to rise up and dispute your claim.”
“What power—human power, at least—can dispute
the lawful claim of an owner to his property?
That Point has been ours ever since civilized man
has dwelt among these hills; who will presume to rob
us of it?”
“You will be much surprised to discover that there
is such a power, and that there is actually a disposition
to exercise it. The public—the all-powerful,
omnipotent, overruling, law-making, law-breaking
public—has a passing caprice to possess itself of your
energy, or it will get it?”
“Are you serious, cousin Jack?”
“As serious as the magnitude of the subject can
render a responsible being, as Mr. Dodge would say.”
Eve said no more, but she looked vexed, and remained
almost silent until they landed, when she hastened
to seek her father, with a view to communicate
what she had heard. Mr. Effingham listened to his
daughter, as he always did, with tender interest; and
when she had done, he kissed her glowing cheek, bidding
her not to believe that which she seemed so seriously
to dread, possible.
“But, cousin John would not trifle with me on such
a subject, father,” Eve continued; “he knows how
much I prize all those little heir-looms that are connected
with the affections.”
“We can inquire further into the affair, my child,
if it be your desire; ring for Pierre, if you please.”
Pierre answered, and a message was sent to Mr.
Bragg, requiring his presence in the library.
Aristabulus appeared, by no means in the best humour,
for he disliked having been omitted in the late
excursion on the lake, fancying that he had a community-right
to share in all his neighbour's amusements,
though he had sufficient self-command to conceal
his feelings.
“I wish to know, sir,” Mr. Effingham commenced,
without introduction, “whether there can be any
mistake concerning the ownership of the Fishing
Point on the west side of the lake.”
“Certainly not, sir; it belongs to the public.”
Mr. Effingham's cheek glowed, and he looked astonished;
but he remained calm.
“The public! Do you gravely affirm, Mr. Bragg,
that the public pretends to claim that Point?”
“Claim, Mr. Effingham! as long as I have resided
in this county, I have never heard its right disputed.”
“Your residence in this county, sir, is not of very
ancient date, and nothing is easier than that you may
be mistaken. I confess some curiosity to know in
what manner the public has acquired its title to the
spot. You are a lawyer, Mr. Bragg, and may give
an intelligible account of it.”
“Why, sir, your father gave it to them in his life-time.
Every body, in all this region, will tell you as
much as this.”
“Do you suppose, Mr. Bragg, there is any body in
all this region who will swear to the fact? Proof,
you well know, is very requisite even to obtain justice.”
“I much question, sir, if there be any body in all
this region that will not swear to the fact. It is the
common tradition of the whole country; and, to be
frank with you, sir, there is a little displeasure, because
Mr. John Effingham has talked of giving private
entertainments on the Point.”
“This, then, only shows how idly and inconsiderately
the traditions of the country take their rise.
But, as I wish to understand all the points of the case,
do me the favour to walk into the village, and inquire
of those whom you think the best informed in the
matter, what they know of the Point, in order that I
may regulate my course accordingly. Be particular,
if you please, on the subject of title, as one would not
wish to move in the dark.”
Aristabulus quitted the house immediately, and Eve,
perceiving that things were in the right train, left her
father alone to meditate on what had just passed.
Mr. Effingham walked up and down his library for
some time, much disturbed, for the spot in question
was identified with all his early feelings and recollections;
and if there were a foot of land on earth, to
which he was more attached than to all others, next
to his immediate residence, it was this. Still, he could
not conceal from himself, in despite of his opposition
had undergone many changes since he last resided in
it, and that some of these changes were quite sensibly
for the worse. The spirit of misrule was abroad, and
the lawless and unprincipled held bold language, when
it suited their purpose to intimidate. As he ran over
in his mind, however, the facts of the case, and the
nature of his right, he smiled to think that any one
should contest it, and sat down to his writing, almost
forgetting that there had been any question at all on
the unpleasant subject.
Aristabulus was absent for several hours, nor did
he return until Mr. Effingham was dressed for dinner,
and alone in the library, again, having absolutely lost
all recollection of the commission he had given his
agent.
“It is as I told you, sir—the public insists that it
owns the Point; and I feel it my duty to say, Mr.
Effingham, that the public is determined to maintain
its claim.”
“Then, Mr. Bragg, it is proper I should tell the
public that it is not the owner of the Point, but that I
am its owner, and that I am determined to maintain
my claim.”
“It is hard to kick against the pricks, Mr. Effingham.”
“It is so, sir, as the public will discover, if it persevere
in invading a private right.”
“Why, sir, some of those with whom I have conversed
have gone so far as to desire me to tell you—
I trust my motive will not be mistaken—”
“If you have any communication to make, Mr.
Bragg, do it without reserve. It is proper I should
know the truth exactly.”
“Well, then, sir, I am the bearer of something like
a defiance; the people wish you to know that they
hold your right cheaply, and that they laugh at it.
Not to mince matters, they defy you.”
“I thank you for this frankness, Mr. Bragg, and it
increases my respect for your character. Affairs are
now at such a pass, that it is necessary to act. If
you will amuse yourself with a book for a moment, I
shall have further occasion for your kindness.”
Aristabulus did not read, for he was too much filled
with wonder at seeing a man so coolly set about contending
with that awful public which he himself as
habitually deferred to, as any Asiatic slave defers to
his monarch. Indeed, nothing but his being sustained
by that omnipotent power, as he viewed the power of
the public to be, had emboldened him to speak so
openly to his employer, for Aristabulus felt a secret
confidence that, right or wrong, it was always safe in
America to make the most fearless professions in favour
of the great body of the community. In the
mean time, Mr. Effingham wrote a simple advertisement
against trespassing on the property in question,
and handed it to the other, with a request that he
would have it inserted in the number of the village
paper that was to appear next morning. Mr.
Bragg took the advertisement, and went to execute
the duty without comment.
The evening arrived before Mr. Effingham was
again alone, when, being by himself in the library
once more, Mr. Bragg entered, full of his subject.
He was followed by John Effingham, who had gained
an inkling of what had passed.
“I regret to say, Mr. Effingham,” Aristabulus
commenced, “that your advertisement has created
one of the greatest excitements it has ever been my
ill-fortune to witness in Templeton.”
“All of which ought to be very encouraging to us,
Mr. Bragg, as men under excitement are usually
wrong.”
“Very true, sir, as regards individual excitement,
but this is a public excitement.”
“I am not at all aware that the fact, in the least,
things, half a dozen backers will be very likely to increase
his folly.”
Aristabulus listened with wonder, for excitement
was one of the means for effecting public objects, so
much practised by men of his habits, that it had never
crossed his mind any single individual could be indifferent
to its effect. To own the truth, he had anticipated
so much unpopularity, from his unavoidable
connexion with the affair, as to have contributed himself
in producing the excitement, with the hope of
“choking Mr. Effingham off,” as he had elegantly
expressed it to one of his intimates, in the vernacular
of the country.
“A public excitement is a powerful engine, Mr.
Effingham!” he exclaimed, in a sort of politicopious
horror.
“I am fully aware, sir, that it may be even a fearfully
powerful engine. Excited men, acting in masses,
compose what are called mobs, and have committed
a thousand excesses.”
“Your advertisement is, to the last degree, disrelished;
to be very sincere, it is awfully unpopular!”
“I suppose it is always what you term an unpopular
act, so far as the individuals opposed are concerned,
to resist aggression.”
“But they call your advertisement aggression, sir.”
“In that simple fact exist all the merits of the
question. If I own this property, the public, or that
portion of it which is connected with this affair, are
aggressors; and so much more in the wrong that they
are many against one; if they own the property, I
am not only wrong, but very indiscreet.”
The calmness with which Mr. Effingham spoke
had an effect on Aristabulus, and, for a moment, he
was staggered. It was only for a moment, however,
as the pains and penalties of unpopularity presented
themselves afresh to an imagination that had been so
had got to deem the public favour the one great
good of life.
“But they say, they own the Point, Mr. Effingham.”
“And I say, they do not own the Point, Mr. Bragg;
never did own it; and, with my consent, never shall
own it.”
“This is purely a matter of fact,” observed John
Effingham, “and I confess I am curious to know how
or whence this potent public derives its title. You
are lawyer enough, Mr. Bragg, to know that the
public can hold property only by use, or by especial
statute. Now, under which title does this claim present
itself.”
“First, by use, sir, and then by especial gift.”
“The use, you are aware, must be adverse, or as
opposed to the title of the other claimants. Now, I
am a living witness that my late uncle permitted the
public to use this Point, and that the public accepted
the conditions. Its use, therefore, has not been adverse,
or, at least, not for a time sufficient to make
title. Every hour that my cousin has permitted the
public to enjoy his property, adds to his right, as well
as to the obligation conferred on that public, and increases
the duty of the latter to cease intruding,
whenever he desires it. If there is an especial gift, as
I understand you to say, from my late uncle, there
must also be a law to enable the public to hold, or a
trustee; which is the fact?”
“I admit, Mr. John Effingham, that I have seen
neither deed nor law, and I doubt if the latter exist.
Still the public must have some claim, for it is impossible
that every body should be mistaken.”
“Nothing is easier, nor any thing more common,
than for whole communities to be mistaken, and
more particularly when they commence with excitement.”
While his cousin was speaking, Mr. Effingham
of papers, he laid it down on the table, unfolding several
parchment deeds, to which massive seals, bearing
the arms of the late colony, as well as those of England,
were pendent.
“Here are my titles, sir,” he said, addressing Aristabulus
pointedly; “if the public has a better, let it
be produced, and I shall at once submit to its claim.”
“No one doubts that the King, through his authorized
agent, the Governor of the colony of New-York,
granted this estate to your predecessor, Mr. Effingham;
or that it descended legally to your immediate
parent; but all contend that your parent gave this
spot to the public, as a spot of public resort.”
“I am glad that the question is narrowed down
within limits that are so easily examined. What evidence
is there of this intention, on the part of my late
father?”
“Common report; I have talked with twenty people
in the village, and they all agree that the `Point' has
been used by the public, as public property, from time
immemorial.”
“Will you be so good, Mr. Bragg, as to name
some of those who affirm this.”
Mr. Bragg complied, naming quite the number of
persons he had mentioned, with a readiness that proved
he thought he was advancing testimony of weight.
“Of all the names you have mentioned,” returned
Mr. Effingham, “I never heard but three, and these
are the names of mere boys. The first dozen are
certainly the names of persons who can know no
more of this village than they have gleaned in the last
few years; and several of them, I understand, have
dwelt among us but a few weeks; nay, days.”
“Have I not told you, Ned,” interrupted John
Effingham, “that an American `always' means eighteen
months, and that `time immemorial' is only since
the last general crisis in the money market!”
“The persons I have mentioned compose a part of
the population, sir,” added Mr. Bragg, “and, one and
all, they are ready to swear that your father, by some
means or other, they are not very particular as to
minutiæ, gave them the right to use this property.”
“They are mistaken, and I should be sorry that
any one among them should swear to such a falsehood.
But here are my titles—let them show better,
or, if they can, any, indeed.”
“Perhaps your father abandoned the place to the
public; this might make a good claim.”
“That he did not, I am a living proof to the contrary;
he left it to his heirs at his death, and I myself
exercised full right of ownership over it, until I went
abroad. I did not travel with it in my pocket, sir, it
is true; but I left it to the protection of the laws,
which, I trust, are as available to the rich as to the
poor, although this is a free country.”
“Well, sir, I suppose a jury must determine the
point, as you seem firm; though I warn you, Mr.
Effingham, as one who knows his country, that a verdict,
in the face of a popular feeling, is rather a hopeless
matter. If they prove that your late father intended
to abandon or give this property to the public,
your case will be lost.”
Mr. Effingham looked among the papers a moment,
and selecting one, he handed it to Mr. Bragg, first
pointing out to his notice a particular paragraph.
“This, sir, is my late father's will,” Mr. Effingham
said mildly; “and, in that particular clause, you will
find that he makes a special devise of this very
`Point,' leaving it to his heirs, in such terms as to
put any intention to give it to the public quite out of
the question. This, at least, is the latest evidence I,
his only son, executor, and heir possess of his final
wishes; if that wondering and time-immemorial public
of which you speak, has a better, I wait with
patience that it may be produced.”
The composed manner of Mr. Effingham had deceived
Aristabulus, who did not anticipate any proof
so completely annihilating to the pretensions of the
public, as that he now held in his hand. It was a
simple, brief devise, disposing of the piece of property
in question, and left it without dispute, that Mr. Effingham
had succeeded to all the rights of his father, with
no reservation or condition of any sort.
“This is very extraordinary!” exclaimed Mr.
Bragg, when he had read the clause seven times,
each perusal contributing to leave the case still clearer
in favour of his employer, the individual, and still
stronger against the hoped-for future employers, the
people. “The public ought to know of this bequest
of the late Mr. Effingham.”
“I think it ought, sir, before it pretended to deprive
his child of his property; or, rather, it ought to be
certain, at least, that there was no such devise.”
“You will excuse me, Mr. Effingham, but I think
it is incumbent on a private citizen, in a case of this
sort, when the public has taken up a wrong notion,
as I now admit is clearly the fact as regards the
Point, to enlighten it, and to inform it that it does not
own the spot.”
“This has been done already, Mr. Bragg, in the
advertisement you had the goodness to carry to the
printers, although I deny that there exists any such
obligation.”
“But, sir, they object to the mode you have chosen
to set them right.”
“The mode is usual, I believe, in the case of trespasses.”
“They expect something different, sir, in an affair
in which the public is—is—is—all—”
“Wrong,” put in John Effingham, pointedly. “I
have heard something of this out of doors, Ned, and
blame you for your moderation. Is it true that you
had told several of your neighbours that you have no
your sole object is merely to settle the question of
right, and to prevent intrusions on your family when
it is enjoying its own place of retirement?”
“Certainly, John, my only wish is to preserve the
property for those to whom it is especially devised,
to allow those who have the best, nay, the only right
to it, its undisturbed possession, occasionally, and to
prevent any more of that injury to the trees that has
been committed by some of those rude men, who always
fancy themselves so completely all the public,
as to be masters, in their own particular persons,
whenever the public has any claim. I can have no
wish to deprive my neighbours of the innocent pleasure
of visiting the Point, though I am fully determined
they shall not deprive me of my property.”
“You are far more indulgent than I should be, or,
perhaps, than you will be yourself, when you read
this.”
As John Effingham spoke, he handed his kinsman
a small handbill, which purported to call a meeting,
for that night, of the inhabitants of Templeton, to resist
his arrogant claim to the disputed property. This
handbill had the usual marks of a feeble and vulgar
malignancy about it, affecting to call Mr. Effingham,
“one Mr. Effingham,” and it was anonymous.
“This is scarcely worth our attention, John,” said
Mr. Effingham, mildly. “Meetings of this sort cannot
decide a legal title, and no man who respects
himself will be the tool of so pitiful an attempt to
frighten a citizen from maintaining his rights.”
“I agree with you, as respects the meeting, which
has been conceived in ignorance and low malice, and
will probably end, as all such efforts end, in ridicule.
But—”
“Excuse me, Mr. John,” interrupted Aristabulus,
“there is an awful excitement! Some have even
spoken of Lynching!”
“Then,” said Mr. Effingham, “it does, indeed, require
that we should be more firm. Do you, sir, know
of any person who has dared to use such a menace?”
Aristabulus quailed before the stern eye of Mr.
Effingham, and he regretted having communicated so
much, though he had communicated nothing but the
truth. He stammered out an obscure and half-intelligible
explanation, and proposed to attend the meeting,
in person, in order that he might be in the way
of understanding the subject, without falling into the
danger of mistake. To this Mr. Effingham assented,
as he felt too indignant at this outrage on all his
rights, whether as a citizen or a man, to wish to pursue
the subject with his agent that night. Aristabulus
departed, and John Effingham remained closeted with
his kinsman until the family retired. During this long
interview, the former communicated many things to
the latter, in relation to this very affair, of which the
owner of the property, until then, had been profoundly
ignorant.
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