University of Virginia Library

4. CHAPTER IV.

After a conversation similar to that recorded
in the last chapter, the Heer seated himself disconsolately
in his old arm chair, and was silently
and sorrowfully contemplating a picture,
representing his little daughter Christina, then
about a year old, nestling on the bosom
of her mother, now no more. As a specimen
of art the picture was not worth a stiver; but
the Heer would not have parted with it for the
whole wealth of his territory, for it was almost
the only memorial, save that which he carried
in his old broken heart, of the two beings he had
loved better than all the world besides. While
thus seated, the good Heer communed with his
heart, in something like the following soliloquy:

“Ah! wife of my bosom, and daughter of
my affections, ye are gone from me, though in the

common course of nature I should rather have departed
before you. Alas! a wifeless and childless
old man is like the withered trunk of a tree,
whose branches have all been lopped off close
to its body; without verdure, without leaves,
without life, it stands bare to the winds
of heaven, the emblem of sterility and decay.
No bird nestles in its leafy covert—no animal
seeks a shelter in its shade—no little suckers
shoot forth from its sapless roots, to indicate
where the old trunk decayed and died. Where
are ye now, my companion in youth, my solace
in declining age? The one is a saint in heaven—but
the other! my sprightly, kind-hearted,
duteous daughter! Her eyes, the colour of
Heaven, are long ere this closed in darkness;
her cheeks, the colour of the rose, are clay cold
and blanched now—the prey of sorrow, and
the worms. Or perhaps she still lives, a wretched
outcast of the woods, the companion of wild
beasts, the slave of men wilder than they;
shut out from her customary society, deprived
of the solace of parental affection, and robbed of
all that makes existence aught but a weary burden,
a weight that crushes the elastic spirit to the
earth, and points it to the grave as its only refuge.
My daughter! my only, my beloved
child!”

As the Heer thus indulged himself in
melancholy ponderings, his attention was called
off by a distant noise, that came to his ear
like the shouts of joyful exultation. He listened,
but again all was silent. What can it
mean thought he. But the thought was only
momentary, and he sunk into his usual train
of dark and dismal contemplation. Again
the shout was repeated, still nearer, by the noisy
tongues of the village train, whose elastic spirits
were ever ready to seize occasions for noise
and jollity. Nearer, and still nearer, came the
rout, until at length the attention of the Heer
was roused by something which struck upon his
heart like a repetition of Christina's name. He
started up, and, hurrying with faltering steps to
the window, beheld, a little way off, a crowd of
people, in the midst of which seemed to be a
tall, stately figure, mounted on horseback, with
something that looked like a woman seated behind
him. The waning lamp of his aged eyes
would not permit him to distinguish any more.
Yet—and the hope glanced upon his heart
like lightning—yet, if it should be her, returning
at last to his arms! As the eye, when long

accustomed to darkness, shuts close its lids at
the slightest ray of light, so does the mortal spirit,
weakened by age, long suffering, melancholy
thoughts, and dark forebodings, become
overpowered by the first ray of hope that glances
into its gloomy recesses. It often happens,
too, that the ardent desire to realize a darling
hope, is checked by an apprehension that certainty,
instead of leading to fruition, will only
lead to disappointment. To minds naturally
weak, or weakened by long suffering, uncertainty
is less painful than to know the worst.

From one or both these causes, the good
Heer, instead of going forth to learn the truth,
returned trembling to his chair and there sat
waiting, almost in a state of insensibility, the approach
of the crowd.

“My father! where, where is he?” exclaimed
a voice that went to the innermost soul of the
Heer, who sat riveted to his chair, without the
power of speech or motion. A moment after,
a figure rushed in and threw herself at his feet,
kissed his hands, and wept upon them.

“My father, hast thou forgotten Christina,—
or, Oh! heavenly powers! perhaps he has forgotten
himself! speak to me, dear father, or kiss

me, or press my hand—Oh, do something to show
thou rememberest and lovest thy child.”

The Heer pressed her hand, in token that he
had not forgotten his daughter, but it was some
minutes before he became sufficiently recovered
to take her to his bosom, weep over, and bless
her. When he did, the scene was so moving,
that the spectators shed tears of sympathy; and
even the dry and parched cheeks of Shadrach
Moneypenny exhibited indications of moisture.

“But you must thank my deliverers,” said
Christina, when the first strong feelings of joy
had subsided.

“And who are they?” answered the Heer,
wiping his eyes and looking round. “Ah! Long
Finne, art thou there? I dare almost swear thou
hadst a hand in my daughter's preservation:
come hither, boy, thou art thrice welcome. Is
it not so, Christina?”

“I owe my life to him,” replied Christina,
“but not my liberty, father.”

“To whom then? if he is present, I will hug
him in my arms; if absent, I will seek him
through the world but I will thank him; if he be
poor, I will make him rich; if he be rich, he shall
have my everlasting gratitude. Stand forth,
whoever thou art; the guilty, are not ashamed

of their evil deeds—why should the virtuous blush
for theirs?”

The stiff and upright form of Shadrach Moneypenny
now advanced with measured steps towards
the Heer, who, on perceiving it approaching,
started up, and hugged Shadrach, with
such good will, that the head of the Governor
actually dislodged the hat of the other, and it
fell to the floor. Shadrach stooped down with
great deliberation, and, picking up the hat, placed
it on his head and said—

“Take notice, friend Piper, I pulled not off
mine own hat, in reference to thy dignity, or
that of thy master, the bloody-minded man who
carrieth the gospel of peace upon the incarnadined
point of his sword. It fell by accident,
verily.”

“Be it so,” returned the Heer; “thou shalt
wear thy beaver in the presence of kings, nay,
of the King of kings, if thou likest, my noble
benefactor, to whom I owe more than I can
ever pay.”

“I am not thy benefactor, friend Piper,”
quoth Shadrach, “and thou owest me no more
than that good will which we are enjoined to
bear towards all our neighbours. What I have
done was by the command (or rather, at the

request) of William Penn, (for we obey no orders
from any man, or body of men, except we
list,) who sent me forthwith into the wilderness,
with store of glass beads, tobacco, and the like,
to redeem thy daughter, together with him they
call the Long Finne; likewise friend Dotterel,
commonly denominated among the aboriginals
the Jumping Sturgeon; and lastly, the coloured
lad, bearing the heathen appellative of Cupid,
the which I do intreat thee, as a particular favour,
to have christened over again, in which
case I will accord myself to stand godfather.”

“Well, then,” replied the Heer, “I shall bethink
myself of some means worthily and magnificently
to reward both the good William
Penn and all those who have been the instruments
of his benevolence in the redemption of
my dear child, whose return to my bosom is as
the warmth of spring to the torpid animals of the
forest.”

“William Penn wants no rewards, neither do
I,” quoth Shadrach. “When he despatched
me forth into the wilderness, and I departed in
accordance with his wishes, it was not as if on
an expedition of trade or profit. We will exchange
with thee good offices, but we cannot sell
them.”

“Well, but, der teufel,” replied the Heer, a
rittle ruffled—

“Swear not at all,” interrupted Shadrach—
“friend Piper, swear not at all. And, now I bethink
me, if thou wishest to exhibit thy gratitude
to William Penn, or me, his chosen vessel, let it be
in the utter abandonment of that unseemly custom,
which, I am aggrieved to say, savours of the
company and good fellowship of Sathan and
his imps.”

At any other time, this sally of Shadrach
would have brought the wrath of the Heer upon
him, in a great tempest of expletives; but now
he had got his daughter's hand in his, while
she herself was seated on the little stool, which
whilome supported his gouty foot, and felt so
happy at the moment, that he had neither room
nor words for any other feeling.

“Say, then,” said he at length, in reply to
Shadrach's exhortation—“say that I will come
myself, and thank him for having restored to me
my child; and think to thyself that I will never
forget thy good offices.”

“I will so say,” rejoined Shadrach. “And
now, albeit I have finished my mission, and
done the bidding (or rather the request) of William
Penn, I will essay my return from whence

I came. Farewell, friend Piper—swear not
at all.”

Shadrach then shook hands with the Governor,
the Long Finne, and the likely fellow Cupid,
whom he exhorted to take to himself a new
name of Christian seemliness. He also looked
about for the Jumping Sturgeon, who, however,
was found wanting, being at that time busily
employed in keeping order among his old enemies,
the roystering urchins of Elsingburgh. The
spirit then moved Shadrach Moneypenny to approach
the fair Christina, which he did with
great gallantry, his beaver being up in front.

“Maiden,” quoth Shadrach, “umph! verily
thou art fair, and comely therewithal: will
shake hands with thee for old acquaintance sake.
Verily, I say again, thou art exceeding fair and
comely: I will salute thee, maiden, being thereunto
moved by having sojourned with thee in the
wilderness. Verily, I say a third time, maiden,
thou art altogether and without equal fair and
comely; I will embrace thee in the spirit, being
thereunto moved by”—

But Shadrach, as he opened his arms to carry
into execution his sober wishes, like another
Ixion, embraced a cloud. Christina had taken
advantage of his habit of elevating his eyes to

the ceiling, to slip away, unperceived by the good
man, who, without the least appearance of being
ruffled and disquieted at the disappointment,
gravely observed that the maiden was over bashful.
He then turned himself as on a pivot, and
departed amid the grateful thanks of all, save
the Long Finne, who never forgave Shadrach
the sin of having touced the red lip of Christina.