University of Virginia Library

Epilogue.

Wiskonsan!

Among the latest-born of the great family
of American Nations, this young state by her
code of humanity, shames the barbarous
laws which yet prevail in the Atlantic States.

Reader let us leave the Quaker City, and go
forth together, into the free forests of Wiskonsan,
where the blessing of God is written
in every flower — where the breeze, that
comes over river and prairie, is not tainted
with the breath of the Great City's crimes.

It is a summer evening, in the year 1848.

Let us stand upon the brow of the rock,
which overlooks the broad river, and drink in
the wild beauty of the prospect, the calm fragrance
of the evening air. The sky is clear,
and the setting sun, bathes the woods and
rocks which rise yonder, on the opposite shore
of the river.

Look around you — and tell us — what is
it that meets your gaze. Gaze through the
interval, which breaks the compact mass of
foliage, on the heights of the opposite shore.

It is a beautiful prospect. At the end of a
green field, stands a massive house built of
substantial logs, two stories in height and with
a line of blue smoke rising from one of its
many chimneys, into the sky. Behind the
log-house, spreads a prospect of tremulous
gold — a field of wheat, extending as, far as
you can see, until your gaze is lost, in the blue
haze of the distant woods. Skirting this
golden prospect, a field of emerald green, also
extends behind the log-house, and loses its
verdure, only in the shadows of the distant
woods.

It is a beautiful prospect. A log-house
built in the wilderness, not far from the river,
shore, and rising in the very lap of fruitful
fields — fields rich with harvests of emerald
and gold. And on the distant hills, herds of
cattle were grazing, their shadows lengthened
by the setting sun.

Let us cross the river. Let us enter one of
those nooks of shadows and flowers, which
are sunken amid the foliage of the opposite
shores.

There, seated on the sward, behold the
owner of the house, a young and hardy man,
whose rustic attire cannot divert your attention
from the traces of thought and education,
visible in every lineament of his face.

Beside him, leaning on his arm, behold a
young woman, whose beautiful face is
shadowed by raven hair. Very plainly clad,
and yet very beautiful, she is seated on the
sward, with a child not more than two years
old, upon her knee.

This you will confess, is a picture full of
interest and meaning.

A young husband, a young wife, sitting in
the shadows by the river shore, their faces
turned to the western sky, and their hearts

swelling with that peculiar joy and sorrow,
which is produced by the sight of a calm sky,
a broad river and lonely woods, all bathed in
the glow of departing day.

“Thank God for the free woods!” exclaims
the Husband, after a long pause.

The wife does not speak, but she takes her
husband by the hand while her eyes fill with
tears. As she compares the Present with the
Past, so dark and troubled, her heart swells
with a sensation of unutterable thankfulness.

And while they are sitting there alone, the
sound of footsteps resound among the bushes,
and presently two new figures appear upon
the scene.

An old but hardy man of almost giant
stature, and a young man whose lithe and
active figure, does not indicate more than
twenty-two years of life. They are dressed
in huntsman's gear: with game-bag, powder-horn,
and shot-pouch, and each one carries a
rifle on his shoulder. As they come into
sight, the old man — whose sunburnt face
with white whiskers, beams with the good
nature of a rough but honest heart — is telling
to the young man, some story of adventure in
the wild woods, which brings the fire to his
large grey eyes.

“It is Peter and Ralph!” cries the young
wife in a glad accent.

And in a moment the new-comers are seated
beside the husband and wife, while the old
man brings forth from the game-bags the fruits
of their ramble in the woods.

“We stopped at Marvin Farm in the course
o' th' arternoon,” said Peter: “All well. Old
Marvin, Hannah, her husband and the leetle
boys.”

“We were also at Cattermill's a little
while,” exclaimed Ralph. “I wonder if
Israel Bonus was alive again, whether he'd
know John?” Ralph laughed at the idea.
“Couldn't help thinking of Bonus Court, as
I saw Nancy and her children sitting under a
cherry tree, while John was busy with the
men in the harvest field. Something of a
change — isn't it?”

Lester Farm, Cattermill Farm and Marvin
Farm, are the names of three adjoining plantations
— if we may use that word, in regard
to free land, worked by free labour — and the
owners of these farms, were respectively
Charles Lester, William Marvin and John
Cattermill. After his marriage with Fanny,
Charles had purchased a tract of land in Wiskonsan,
and divided it into three farms. One
he presented to William Marvin, the other to
John Cattermill, and the last he reserved for
himself.

“That Cattermill ain't the same man,” exclaimed
Peter. “Don't you remember,
Charley, when we first met him — but three
years ago — livin' in Cincinnati, a poor, miserable
sot, who depended on the labour of his
wife for his support? You told him to pack
up and come with you. He did that. You
giv' him an object to live for. I wish old
Bonus could rise from his grave and see John
Cattermill as he is — not as he was. I do.”

“And Marvin,” said Ralph — “He told me
to-day, as we walked in the fields, that he had
looked for God in the clouds long enough.
`Now, my child,' says he, `I find him here,
in these free woods.”'

And this change had been accomplished
by the agency of Charles Lester. Aroused
from the lethargy of mental disease, by his
love for the daughter of Alice Bayne, Charles
had found development for his energies, in
cultivating this tract of forest land, and in
gathering the wandering children of civilized
misery and landless toil, to a Home in the
wilds of Wiskonsan. Marvin, Cattermill and
Ralph, were by no means the only monuments
of the redemption, accomplished by his kindly
heart and active brain.

And then as the evening begins to gather,
the conversation turns upon the events of
other days.

Peter and the young husband begin to converse
in low tones, while Ralph and the young
wife look significantly into each other's faces.

Ralph, completely transformed since we
last beheld him, presses his sister's hand,
while his chest heaves and his eyes brighten
with emotion.

Fanny, very pale and trembling, listens to
the conversation of Peter and her husband,
and silently returns the pressure of her
brother's hand.

“You heard that he was living?” whispers
Lester, gazing into Peter's face, as it is
warmed by the last rays of the setting sun.

“Livin' and preachin'!” answered Peter

“The feller that we left hanging in the woods,
has been a preachin', not two months since,
in Fildelfy and New York. Thousands of
souls—so the papers say — have been soundly
converted under his ministry.”

“He is alive!” ejaculated Lester: “I am
glad of it! Base as he is, I would not have
his blood upon my conscience. The worst
punishment that you can inflict upon a man
like him, is to bid him live!”

“How did he get off the rope? That
puzzles me. It's a reg'lar sockdologer.”

“Shall I tell the story, Fan?” whispered
Ralph to his sister.

“Yes,” assented Fanny, blushing and
trembling, as she felt conscious that she had
kept a secret from her husband.

“Well, Peter,” began Ralph, “Do you
really want to know how the Preacher escaped?”

Peter looked at him, in much surprise.

“Of course,” he answered — “What do you
know about it?”

“I cut him down,” quietly exclaimed Ralph.

“You cut him down!” was the simultaneous
ejaculation of Charles and Peter.

“Forgive me, Charles, it was my fault,”
interrupted Fanny, laying her hand upon her
husband's arm: “You remember that night,
when I rested at the stone house in the
forest — ”

“While us folks was a-hangin' the Preacher?
Yes. Go on gal,” cried Peter.

“Ralph came into my room, after I had gone
to bed, and told me the whole story. He told
me that not five minutes before, he had left the
miserable man, struggling with death, alone in
the dark woods. I besought Ralph to hurry
back and set him free. After much entreaty,
he consented — ”

“You had a hard time to persuade me, Fan.
But I did hurry back and cut him down, just
as he was kicking his last. And I brought
him to, and gave him some money, and sent
the poor devil on his way. Couldn't help it,
Charley: Fan begged so hard, and then it was
a shame to send him to the devil, before he
had done all the devil's work.”

“You are an angel,” whispered Charles to
his wife, quietly pressing her hand: “You
know not how many hours of painful thought
you have spared me by this deed. Ralph!
Your hand! It was a good deed, and I like
you the better for it.”

“Not quite sartin about its goodness,” said
Peter, as if thinking aloud: “I've know'd
many a rattlesnake of much better heart than
that same Preacher. Hallo, Charley! I'd
almost forgotten it. We stopped at the Post
Office on our way home. Here's a letter for
you.”

Charles took the letter, and glancing at the
superscription, beheld the post-mark of Philadelphia.
He opened it, and held it toward the
light of the setting sun, and thus managed to
peruse its contents.

“It is from a good-hearted but eccentric
friend of mine,” said Charles — “A singular
man, indeed, for he is a lawyer in tolerably
good practice, and withal an honest man.”

“So Ralph, the tin box is yours at last!”
cried Charles: “You entrusted it to me,
some three years ago. I will now give it back
to you. What do you intend to do with it?
It is of course, a separate matter altogether,
from the property which you inherit in common
with Fanny.”

Ralph was silent. He grasped the hand of
Charles, and with that silent grasp, spoke the
full volume of his gratitude.

By the light of the rising moon, the party
ascended to the hill, and returned to the log-house,
Fanny leaning on her husband's arm,
while Ralph and Peter brought up the rear,
with young Arthur in their charge. Once
within the walls of their forest home, Ralph
drew Charles aside, and whispered “The tin
box — I'd like to speak with you about it.”

Charles took a light and led him into a
small room, which fitted up with some neatness,
served as the library. Placing the light
on a desk, which supported a small book case,
Charles opened a drawer, and Ralph presently
beheld the tin box — for the first time in five
years.

Charles watched him closely. Ralph's
visage, entirely changed from its old-time look
of precocious suffering and stolid defiance, was
agitated in every lineament. He regarded the
Tin Box for some moments in silence, his lip
quivering slightly, and his grey eyes dilating
with an intense light.

“Open it Charley,” he said at last.

It was opened. The bright surface of
golden coin, packed snugly in that narrow
space, glittered in the light.

“Take it Ralph. It is yours. You can
leave us, and go into business for yourself.
Either here, or in some large city.”

Ralph took the box and placed it under his
arm. Fifteen thousand dollars in gold and
bank notes, were now altogether his own.
He left the room abruptly and passed from the
house, followed by Charles, who did not know
what to make of his movements.

Once more in the moonlight, Ralph seized
a spade, and hurried down the path which led
to the river. When Charles next saw him,
he discovered him engaged in digging a cavity,
at the foot of a massive oak, whose wide arms
overhung the waters.

Charles watched his movements in silence.

The cavity once dug, he dropped the Tin
Box into its depths, replaced the earth and
smoothed the sod, until it looked even and
green as ever.

“There Charley,” he exclaimed — “When
I want to leave you, and go into business for
myself, in some large city, I'll dig up that
Tin Box again. Not before.”

And as they clasped hands over the grave
of the Tin Box it was resolved by Charles
and Ralph to leave it rest there, until the
year 1849, when (in case Ralph changed his
mind, and desired to leave the free forest for
the enslaved city,) it should be brought forth
to light once more.