 | THE DIVINING ROD. Legends of the West |  |
THE DIVINING ROD.
On a pleasant evening in the autumn of the year
18—, two travellers were slowly winding their
way along a narrow road which led among the hills
that overhang the Cumberland river, in Tennessee.
One of these was a farmer of the neighbourhood—
a large, robust, sunburnt man, mounted on a sleek
plough horse. He was one of the early settlers,
who had fought and hunted in his youth, among
the same valleys that now teemed with abundant
harvests; a rough plain man clad in substantial
homespun, he had about him an air of plenty and
independence, which is never deceptive, and which
belongs almost exclusively to our free and fertile
country. His companion was of a different cast—a
small, thin, grey haired man, who seemed worn
down by bodily or mental fatigue to almost a
shadow. He was a preacher, but one who would
have deemed it an insult to be called a clergyman;
for he belonged to a sect who contemn all human
learning as vanity, and who consider a trained
minister as little better than an impostor. The
person before us was a champion of the sect. He
he knew one letter from another; that he had
learned to read for the sole purpose of gaining access
to the scriptures, and, with the exception of the
hymns used in his church, had never read a page in
any other book. With considerable natural sagacity,
and an abundance of zeal, he had a gift of
words, which enabled him at times to support his
favourite tenets with a plausibility and force,
amounting to something very nearly akin to eloquence,
and which, while it gave him unbounded
sway among his own followers, was sometimes not
a little troublesome to his learned opponents. His
sermons presented a curious mixture of the sententious
and the declamatory, an unconnected mass of
argument and assertion, through which there ran a
vein of dry original humour, which, though it often
provoked a smile, never failed to rivet the attention
of the audience. But these flashes were like sparks
of fire, struck from a rock; they communicated a
life and warmth to the hearts of others, which
seemed to have no existence in that from which
they sprung, for that humour never flashed in his
own eye, nor relaxed a muscle of his melancholy,
cadaverous countenance. yet that eye was not
destitute of expression; there were times when it
beamed with intelligence, moments when it softened
into tenderness; but its usual character was that of a
visionary, fanatic enthusiasm. His ideas were not
numerous, and the general theme of his declamation
consisted of metaphysical distinctions between
the one being a direct inspiration, and the
other a spurious substitute learned from vain books.
He wrote a tract to show it was the thirst after human
knowledge, which drove our first parents from
paradise, that through the whole course of succeeding
time school larning had been the most prolific
source of human misery and mental degradation,
and that bible societies, free masonry, the holy
alliance, and the inquisition, were so many engines
devised by king-craft, priest-craft, and school-craft,
to subjugate the world to the power of Satan. He
spoke of the millennium as a time when “there
should be no king, nor printer, nor Sunday school,
nor outlandish tongue, nor vain doctrine—when
men would plough, and women milk the cows, and
talk plain English to each other, and worship God
out of the fulness of their hearts, and not after vain
forms written by men.” In short, this worthy
man was entirely opposed to the spread of religious
knowledge; “when a man has head religion,” he
would say, “he is in a bad fix to die—cut off his
head, and away goes his soul and body to the
devil.” The remainder of his character may be
briefly sketched. Honest, humane and harmless
in private life, impetuous in his feelings, fearless
and independent by nature, and reared in a country
where speech is as free as thought, he pursued his
vocation without intolerance, but with a zeal which
sometimes bordered on insanity. He spoke of his
opponents more in sorrow than in anger, and bewailed
mourns over her first born. He was of course
ignorant and illiterate; and with a mind naturally
vigorous, and capable of high attainments, his
visionary theories, and perhaps a slight estrangement
of intellect, had left the soil open to superstition,
so that while at one time he discovered and
exposed a popular error with wonderful acuteness,
at another he blindly adopted the grossest fallacy.
Such was Mr Zedekiah Bangs. His innocent and
patriarchal manners insured him universal esteem,
and rendered him famous, far and wide, under the
title of Uncle Zeddy; while his acknowledged zeal
and sanctity gained for him in his own church, and
among the religious generally, the more reverend
appellation of Father Bangs.
Our worthy preacher, having no regular stipend—
for he would have scorned to preach for the lucre
of gain, cultivated a small farm, or as the phrase
is, raised a crop, in the summer, for the subsistence
of his family. During this season he ministered
diligently among his neighbours; but in the
autumn and winter his labours were more extensive.
Then it was that he mounted his nag, and rode forth
to spread his doctrines, and to carry light and encouragement
to the numerous churches of his sect.
Then it was that he travelled thousands of miles,
encountering every extreme of fatigue and privation,
and every vicissitude of climate, seldom sleeping
twice in the same bed, or eating two meals at the same
place, and counting every day lost in which he did
same avocation with praiseworthy assiduity in other
countries, have little notion of the hardships which
are endured by the class of men of whom I am
writing. Living on the frontier, where the settlements
are separated from each other by immense
tracts of wilderness, they brave toil and hunger
with the patience of the hunter. They traverse
pathless wilds, swim rivers, encamp in the open
air, and learn the arts, while they acquire the hardihood
of backwoodsmen. Such were the labours
of our worthy preacher; yet he would accept no
pay; requiring only his food and lodging, which
are always cheerfully accorded, at every dwelling
in the west, to the travelling minister.
Among his converts was Johnson, the farmer in
whose company we found him at the commencement
of this history. Tom Johnson, as he was
familiarly called, had been a daring warrior and
hunter, in the first settlement of this country.
When times became peaceable he married and settled
down, and, as is not unusual, by the mere rise
in value of his land, and the natural increase of his
stock, became in a few years comparatively wealthy,
with but little labour. A state of ease and affluence
was not without its dangers to a man of his temperament
and desultory habits; and Tom was beginning
to become what in this country is called a
“Rowdy,” that is to say, a gentleman of pleasure,
without the high finish which adorns that character
in more polished societies. He “swapped” horses,
frequented all public meetings, talked big at elections,
and was courted by candidates for office; he
played loo, drank deep, and on proper occasions
“took a small chunk of a fight.”
Tom “got religion” at a camp-meeting, and for a
while was quite a reformed man. Then he relapsed
a little, and finally settled down into a doubtful
state, which the church could not approve, yet
could not conveniently punish. He neither drank
nor swore; he wore the plain dress, kept the Sabbath,
attended meetings, and gave a cordial welcome
to the clergy at his house. But he had not sold his
colts; he went sometimes to the race ground; he
could count the run of the cards and the chances of
candidates; and it was even reported that he had
betted on the high trump. From this state he was
awakened by Father Bangs, who boldly arraigned
him as a backslider. “You've got head religion,”
said the preacher, “you're a Sunday Christian—on
the Sabbath you put on your straight coat and your
long face, and serve your Master—the rest of the
week you serve Satan; now it does n't take a Philadelphia
lawyer to tell, that the man who serves the
master one day, and the enemy six, has just six
chances out of seven to go to the devil; you are
barking up the wrong tree, Johnson,—take a fresh
start, and try to get on the right trail.” Tom was
convinced by this argument, became a changed man,
and felt that he owed a heavy debt of gratitude to
the venerable instrument of his reformation, whom
he visited the neighbourhood. On this occasion,
the good man, having preached in the vicinity, was
going to spend the night with his friend Johnson.
As the travellers passed along, I am not aware
that either of them cast a thought upon the romantic
and picturesque beauties by which they were
surrounded. The banks of the Cumberland, at this
point, are rocky and precipitous; sometimes presenting
a parapet of several hundred feet in height, and
sometimes shooting up into cliffs, which overhang
the stream. The river itself, rushing through the
deep abyss, appears as a small rivulet to the beholder;
the steam-boats, struggling with mighty
power against the rapid current, are diminished to
the eye, while the roaring of the steam and the
rattling of wheels come exaggerated by a hundred
echoes.
The travellers halted to gaze at one of these vessels,
which was about to ascend a difficult pass,
where the river, confined on either side by jutting
rocks, rushed through the narrow channel with increased
volocity. The prow of the boat plunged
into the swift current, dashing the foam over the
deck. Then it paused and trembled; a powerful
conflict succeeded, and for a time the vessel neither
advanced nor receded. Her struggles resembled
those of an animated creature. Her huge hull
seemed to writhe upon the water. The rapid motion
of the wheels, the increased noise of the engine,
the bursting of the escape-steam from the valve,
the highest point. It was a moment of thrilling
suspense. A slight addition of power would enable
the boat to advance,—the least failure, the slightest
accident, would expose her to the fury of the torrent
and dash her on the rocks. Thus she remained for
several minutes; then resuming her way, crept
heavily over the ripple, reached the smooth water
above, and darted swiftly forward.
“Them sort of craft did n't use to crawl about on
the rivers, when we first knew the country, brother
Johnson,” said the preacher.
“No, indeed,” returned the other.
“And the more 's the pity,” continued the
preacher; “does not the apostle caution us against
the inventions of men? We had vain and idle devices
enough to lead our minds off from our true
good, without these smoking furnaces of Satan,
these floating towers of Babel, that belch forth huge
volumes of brimstone, and seduce honest men and
women from home, to go visiting around the land
in large companies, and talk to each other in strange
tongues.”
“I am told,” said Johnson, “that some of them
carry tracts and good books, for the edification of
the passengers.”
“Worse and worse!” replied the preacher;
“tracts! what are they but printed snares for the
soul? There was no printing-office in Eden—oh
no! and when all the creatures of the earth were
gathered into the ark, there was no missionary, male
his voice, “thou floating synagogue of Satan! soon
shall the time arrive when there shall be neither
steam boat, nor sunday school, nor other device of
vain philosophy!”
“Others of these boats,” said the farmer, “have
cards and music and wine, with every sort of
amusement, on board.”
“These are bad things,” returned the preacher;
“men and women should not drink rum, nor swear,
nor gamble, nor make uncouth noises with out-landish
instruments; but all these are not so bad as
tracts—for these former are open enemies, while
the latter catch a man's soul asleep under a tree,
and kidnap him when he is camped out afar from
home.”
“In our day, father, the merchants were well
enough satisfied to tote their plunder upon mules
and pack horses. And that puts me in mind of a
story that happened near about where we are now
riding.”
“What is that, brother Johnson?”
“In an early time, some traders were crossing
the country, and aimed to make the river at the
ford just below this. They had a great deal of money,
all in silver, packed upon mules, for in them
days we had n't any of this nasty paper money.”
“No—nor much of any sort,” said the preacher
slyly.
“If we had n't,” replied the former sturdily, “we
had what answered the purpose as well. I mind
'coon-skins passed currenter than bank notes does
now. In them days, if a man got into a chunk of
a fight with his neighbour, a lawyer would clear
him for half a dozen muskrat skins, and the justice
and constable would have scorned to take a fee,
more than just a treat or so. But you know all
that—so I'll tell my tale out, though I reckon
you've heard it before?”
“I think I have,” said the other, “but I'd like
to hear it again—it sort o' stirs one up, to hear
about old times.”
“Well, the traders had got here safe, with their
plunder, when the news came that Indians were
about. There was no chance to escape with their
loaded mules; so they unloadened them, and buried
the money somewhere among these rocks; and then
being light, made their escape. So far, the old
settlers all agree; but then some say that the Indians
pursued on after them, a great way into Kentucky,
and killed them all; others say that they finally escaped,
the fact is, that the people never came back
after the money, and it is supposed that it lies hid
somewhere about here to this day.”
“Has not that money often been searched after?”
“Oh, bless you, yes; a heap of times. Many a
chap has sweated among these rocks by the hour.
Only a few years ago, a great gang of folks came
out of Kentucky, and dug all around here, as if they
were going to make a crop; but to no purpose.”
“And what, think you, became of the money?”
“People say it is there yet.”
“But your own opinion?”
“Why, to tell you my opinion sentimentally,”
replied Tom, winking and lowering his voice, “I
do n't believe in that story.”
“How?” exclaimed the other incredulously.
“It's just a tale—a mere noration,” said Tom,
“there's no two ways about it.”
“Indeed! how can you think so?”
“Why, look here, father Zedekiah,—I know,
very well, that every man, woman, and child
within fifty miles, thinks there is certainly a vast
treasure buried in these rocks; but when I almost
as good as know to the contrary, I am not bound
to give up my opinion.”
“Very right, that 's just my way; but let us have
your reasons.”
“I have fought the Indians myself,” said the
farmer, “and I know all their ways. They never
come out boldly into the open field, and take a fair
fight, fist and skull, as Christians do; but are always
sneaking about in the bushes, studying out some
devilment. The traders and hunters understand
them perfectly well; the Indians and they are continually
practising devices on each other. Many a
trick I've played on them, and they have played me
as many. Now it seems to me to be nateral—just as
plain as if I was on the ground and saw it, that them
traders should have made a sham of burying money,
and run off while the Indians were looking
for it.”
“That's not a good argument, brother Johnson.”
“I have great respect for your opinion,” replied
the farmer, but on this subject I have made up my
mind—”
“So have I,” interrupted the preacher, and reining
in his horse, he fell in the rear of his companion,
as if determined to hear no more.
Johnson, in broaching this subject, had not been
aware of the interest it possessed in the mind of his
friend. The fact was, that Bangs in his visits to
this country had frequently heard the report alluded
to, and it was precisely suited to operate upon his
credulous and enthusiastic mind. At first he pondered
on it as a matter of curiosity, until it fastened
itself upon his imagination. In his long and lonesome
journeys, when he rode for whole days
without seeing a human face, or habitation, he
amused himself in calculating the probable amount
of the buried treasure. The first step was to fix in
his own mind the number of mules, and as the tradition
varied from one to thirty, he prudently
adopted the medium between these extremes. He
found some difficulty in determining the burthen of
a single mule, but to fix the number of dollars
which would be required to make up that burthen,
was impossible, because the worthy divine was so
little acquainted with money, as not to know the
weight of a single coin. For the first time in his
life he lacked arithmetic, and found himself in a
strait, in which he conceived that it might be prudent
to take the counsel of a friend.
Near the residence of the reverend man dwelt
an industrious pedagogue. He was a tall, sallow,
unhealthy looking youth, with a fine clear blue eye,
and a melancholy countenance, which at times assumed
a sly sarcastic expression that few could
interpret. In the winter, when the farmers' children
had a season of respite from labour, he diligently
pursued his vocation. In the summer he strolled
listlessly about the country, sometimes roaming
the forest with his rifle, sometimes eagerly devouring
any book that might chance to fall into his
hands. Between him and the preacher there was
little community of sentiment; yet they were often
together: the scholar found a source of inexhaustible
amusement in the odd, quaint, original arguments
of the divine, and the latter was well pleased to
measure weapons with so respectable an opponent.
They never met without disputation, yet they always
parted in kindness. The preacher, instead of
wondering, with the rest of the neighbours, how
“one small head could carry all he knew,” derided
the acquirements of his friend as worse than vanity;
and the latter respectfully, but stoutly, maintained
the dignity of his profession.
It was not without many qualms of pride that the
worthy father now sought the school-master, with
the intention of gaining information which he knew
not how to get from any other source. Having
once made up his mind, he acted with his usual
promptness, and unused to intrigue or circumlocution,
proceeded directly to his point.
“Charles,” said he, “can you tell me how many
dollars a stout mule might conveniently carry?”
“Indeed I cannot.”
“Do none of your trumpery books treat of these
things?”
“They do not, Uncle Zeddy; but they lay down
the principles upon which such results may be ascertained.”
“Very well; let us see you resolve this question
by your arithmetic.”
“You must first give me the data: what is the
burthen of a mule?”
“Can't tell; never backed one in my life.”
“Well, let us see:—we will say that a stout animal
of this class might easily carry you and me, with
all our books, money, and learning; now we cannot
rate our two selves at more than two hundred and
fifty pounds, and for our luggage, tangible and intellectual,
we may set down ciphers; a dollar
weighs an ounce, and there is the question stated:
if one dollar weighs one ounce, how many dollars
will it take to make two hundred and fifty pounds?
Work it by the rule of three, and there is the answer.”
The preacher's eyes glistened as he saw the
figures; a long deep groan such as he was in the
habit of heaving upon all occasions, whether of joy
or sorrow, burst involuntarily from him.
“Charles, my son,” said he, gasping for breath,
and lowering his voice to a whisper, while his eyes,
riveted upon the sum total, seemed ready to start
such mules?”
“In that case,” replied the pedagogue carelessly,
as he multiplied his former product by the sum
named, “in that case the result would be so much.”
“Read the figures to me,” said the preacher,
groaning again, “I am not certain that I can make
them out.”
“It is only about forty-five thousand dollars.”
“Only! oh the blasphemy of learning! Young
man, the wealth of Solomon was nothing to this—
yea, the treasures of Nebuchadnezzar were as dust
in the balance compared with this hoard!” and he
walked slowly away, muttering “it is too much! it
is too much!”
It was indeed a vast sum! more than honest
Zedekiah had even thought or dreamt of; and to a
mind like his, confined heretofore to a single subject,
it developed a new and an immense field of
speculation. He seemed to have opened his eyes
upon a new world. He conjured up in his mind
all the harm that a bad man might do with so much
money; and trembled to think that any one individual
might, by possibility, become master of a
treasure so great, as to be fraught with destruction
to its possessor, and danger to the whole community
in which he lived. He thought of the luxury, the
dissipation, the corruption, that it might lead to;
and rising gradually to a climax, he adverted to the
ruinous and dreadful consequences, if this wealth
should fall into the hands of some weak minded,
how many Sunday schools it would establish, how
many preachers it would educate, how many missionaries
it would send forth, to disseminate a
spurious head religion throughout the world!
Turning from this picture, he reflected on the
benefits which a good man might with all this money
confer on his fellows. Ah! Zedekiah, now it
was that the tempter, who had been all along sounding
thee at a distance, began to lay a regular siege
to thy integrity! Now it was that he sought to
creep into the breast, yea, into the very heart's core,
of worthy Zedekiah! He had always been poor
and contented. But age was now approaching, and
he could fancy a train of wants attendant upon
helpless decrepitude. He glanced at the tattered
sleeve of his coat, and straightway the vision of a
new suit of snuff-coloured broadcloath rose upon his
mind. He thought of his old wife who sat spinning
in the chimney corner at home; she was lame, and
almost blind, poor woman! and he promised to
carry her a pound of tea, and a bottle of good
brandy. In short, the Reverend Mr Bangs set his
heart upon having the money.
Such was the state of matters, when the conversation
occurred which I have just related. It was
again renewed at Johnson's house, that night, after
a substantial supper, and ended as such conversations
usually do, in confirming each party in his
own opinion. Indeed the old man had that day
got, as he thought, a clue, which might lead to the
dame, who many years before had dropped mysterious
hints, which induced a belief that she knew
more on this subject than she chose to tell.
On the following morning, the preacher rose
early, saddled his nag and rode forth in search of
the old woman's dwelling, without apprising any
one of his intention. He soon found the spot,
and the object of his search. She was a poor, decrepid,
superannuated virago, who dwelt in a hovel
as crazy, as weatherbeaten, and as frail, as herself.
She was crouched over the fire smoking a short
pipe, and barely turned her head, as the reverend
man seated himself on the bench beside her.
“It 's a raw morning,” said the preacher.
“I've seen colder,” was the reply.
“So have I,” returned Zedekiah; and there the
tete a tete flagged. The old man warmed his hands,
stirred the fire with his stick, and being a bold man,
advanced again to the charge.
“Pray, madam, are you the widow Anderson?”
“That's my name; I'm not ashamed to own it,”
replied the woman sullenly.
“You're the person then that I was directed to;
I wished to get some information on a particular
subject.”
“Aye; you're after the money too, I suppose—
the devil 's in all the men!”
“The devil never had a worse enemy than I am,”
said the old man archly.
“I do n't know who you are,” replied the woman,
“but you may travel back as wise as you came.”
The preacher mentioned his name, his vocation,
and the object of his visit. The virago, in spite of
her ill-nature, was evidently soothed when she
learned that her visitor was no less a person than the
Reverend Mr Bangs. “Who'd have thought that
the like of you would come on such an errand?”
said she; “well, well, it's little I know, but you are
welcome to that.”
Now came the secret. The husband of Mrs Anderson
had been a water-witch, a finder of living
fountains. These he discovered by the use of the
divining rod, which is well known to possess a virtue
in the hands of a favoured few, of which it is
destitute when used by others. Anderson wielded
the hazel twig with wonderful success, and became
so celebrated that he was sent for far and near to
find water. Inflated with success, he became ambitious
of higher distinction and greater gain. He
imagined that the same art by which he discovered
subterranean fountains, would enable him to find
mineral treasures in the bowels of the earth. He
fancied his fortune already made by the discovery
of mines of precious metals; the hidden silver on the
shores of the Cumberland would of itself repay his
labours. He put all his ingenuity in requisition,
and busied himself for years in endeavouring to find
a wand that would “work” in the vicinity of minerals,
as the ordinary divining rod operates in the
neighbourhood of water. In the latter process,
is composed; the hazel, the peach, the mulberry,
and a few others, all of rapid growth, are the most
approved. Proceeding upon the same principle, he
endeavoured to find a tree or shrub which should
possess an attractive sympathy for metals. Success
at length crowned his operations; he found a tree
whose branches had the desired virtue. He discovered
veins of iron ore in the surrounding hills, and
had announced to his wife that he was on the point
of finding the buried money, when death, who respects
a water-witch no more than a beggar or a
king, arrested his career.
But when she came to speak of the manner of his
death, her voice faltered. She had often warned
Anderson that it was dangerous to meddle with hidden
treasures. They were generally protected by
supernatural beings, who would not allow them to
be removed with impunity; and several persons who
had been engaged in the same search before Anderson,
had been alarmed by appearances which caused
them to desist. One day he came home to his dinner
in high glee, and throwing aside his rod, for
which he declared he had now no further use, he
swore that he would have the money before he
slept. It was deposited, he said, in a certain cliff,
which was very difficult of access, and which he was
determined to visit that afternoon. It was midnight
before he returned. He crawled into his cabin and
sunk with a groan on the floor. His wife struck a
light, and hastened to his assistance, but he was
with bruises, and the general opinion was that
he had been precipitated from the rocks by some
invisible hand.
The rod remained in the possession of his wife,
but its existence was a secret to all others. Fear
had prevented her from ever trying its efficacy, and
inasmuch as it was useless to herself, she took the
wise and spirited resolution, that no other person
should profit by its virtues, and uniformly turned a
deaf ear to the applications frequently made by
those who, knowing the habits of her husband and
his researches in relation to the matter, applied to
her for information. She now presented to the
preacher the long treasured wand, the bark of which
having been peeled off, it was impossible to discover
from what tree it had been taken.
For several days after this event, the reverend
man continued to traverse the neighbourhood, carefully
concealing himself from observation, and exploring
with the metallic rod every spot where it
was probable the treasure might be hidden, and
particularly the cliffs near to Anderson's cabin.
One day he returned to the house of Johnson with
a look of triumph, and desiring a private interview
with his host, informed him that he had found the
spot! It was so situated that he could not reach it
without assistance, and having described the place
accurately to his friend, he concluded by offering
him a liberal share, if he would accompany and aid
refused.
Offended at the obstinacy of the farmer, Father
Bangs left his house. On the road he met a stranger
travelling on foot, with whom he entered into
conversation, and finding him prompt and intelligent
in his replies, he engaged him as an assistant,
and appointed a spot at which they were to meet
on the following morning.
At the hour appointed Uncle Zeddy proceeded
to the rendezvous, where the stranger soon appeared,
bearing on his shoulder an immense coil of rope.
They proceeded to a tall cliff, which, springing from
the margin of the river, towered into the air to the
height of two hundred feet. The summit on which
they stood presented a table surface of rock, to
which they had ascended by a gentle acclivity.
Few ventured to the edge of that precipice, for its
verge, projecting over the river, overhung it at such
a fearful distance that the boldest trembled as they
looked into the abyss. The face of the precipice
as viewed from the opposite shore seemed to be
nearly perpendicular, the slight curve by which the
summit projected over the water, being not observable
from that direction; and about one-third of the
way down, might be seen the mouth of a cave,
which was deemed inaccessible to all but the birds
of the air. The preacher, after due consideration,
had arrived at the conclusion, that the money was
in this cave; and having fastened the cable about his
into the gulf.
It would have been edifying to have seen the
courage with which that old man passed over the
verge, and the steady eye with which he looked
down upon the deep abyss, the jutting rocks, and
the foaming torrent below; while his companion,
having passed the end of the rope round a tree, advanced
to the edge of the rock, and gazed after him
with wonder. Uncle Zeddy found no difficulty in
descending; but on getting opposite to the mouth of
the cave, it was no small exploit to achieve an entrance,
for as the cable hung perpendicularly from
the projecting peak, he found himself swinging in
the air, several feet in advance of the face of the
rock. The only chance for it, was to swing in by
an horizontal movement, and to do this it was necessary
first to give the rope a motion like that of a
pendulum. It was not easy to produce this effect,
for as the preacher hung suspended by the middle,
like the golden fleece, it was difficult to throw his
weight in the desired direction. This, however, was
at last accomplished; and, after swinging to and fro
for half an hour, Uncle Zeddy succeeded in grasping
the rock at the opening, and drew himself into the
cave.
The cavern was small, and our worthy adventurer
soon satisfied himself that it did not contain the object
of his search. The sides were all of solid rock,
without a crevice or other place of concealment.
Being ready to return, he gave the signal agreed
and jerked again—and again—and again, but without
success. Was it possible that his assistant could
be so depraved as to abandon him? He crept to
the mouth of the aperture, and looked out. Under
different circumstances he could have enjoyed the
rushing of the water, and the pleasant fanning of
the breeze as it swept along the valley. But now
the wind seemed to murmur dolefully, the waves
looked angry, and the cragged rocks had a fearful
aspect of danger. He shuddered at the thought of
being forsaken to die of hunger. He shouted; and
his voice echoed from rock to rock. An hour, and
another hour, passed. A steam boat came paddling
along, and he screamed for help. The crew looked
up; they saw the cable, and a man's head peeping
out of the cavern at a dizzy height above them, and
shouted loud in admiration of his daring exploit.
He waved his neckcloth in the air, and uttered piteous
cries, but they understood him not, and only
shouted and laughed the louder as they beheld what
they supposed to be the antic bravadoes of some
daring hunter. The boat passed on. Night came,
and he gave himself up for lost. The sun rose and
he was still a prisoner. The morning wore away
wearily; loss of sleep, hunger, and terror, had
nearly worn the old man out—when he felt the
rope move! A thrill of joy passed through his
chilled frame. He sprung to his feet, and jerked it
violently. The signal was successful; he felt that
a strong and steady arm was drawing him, as it
In a few minutes he passed over the verge, and
found himself in the arms of Johnson. The latter,
alarmed at the unusual length of his friend's absence,
had set out in search of him, and knowing his plan
of visiting the cave, had hastened to this spot, where,
finding the cable attached to a tree, he was so fortunate
as to save the life of his friend in the manner
described. The assistant had absconded with the
preacher's horse.
When Father Bangs was a little recovered from
his terror, he said, “I have not found what I went
for, but I have discovered something that convinces
me I am not far from the spot. It was here that
Anderson met his fate.”
“How did you find that out? there was a heavy
fall of rain, the night of his death, and we could afterwards
find no marks to satisfy us where he fell.”
“As I passed over the edge of the cliff I found
this watch lying in a crevice of the rock. It seems
to have been a long time exposed to the weather,
and must have been in Anderson's pocket, when the
demon, or whatever it was, cast him over.”
“You still believe in this story, then?”
“I have seen nothing to shake my belief; but I
begin to feel sort o' dubious that if there be money
buried here, it is not altogether lawful for any but
the right heirs to search after it. Anderson was
punished for making the attempt, and you see what
a fix I am in. This thought came over me while I
lay confined, and I trembled for the young man
spirited away, or brought to an untimely end.”
“He has been spirited away by that good horse
of yours, and if ever he comes to a violent death it
will be under the gallows.”
“Well, be it so; but my own confinement and
suffering, I cannot but think, was meant as a punishment.”
“Have your own way,” said the farmer, “if
you do but quit money-hunting, I am satisfied, but
I must say, when I hear you talk of spirits and such
like, that I am sorry to find you are still barking
up the wrong tree.
| THE DIVINING ROD. Legends of the West | |