University of Virginia Library

1. PAUL REDDING:
A Tale
OF
THE BRANDYWINE.
BY T. B. READ.

CHAPTER I.

Wordsworth.

The Brandywine river may be observed, at one
time, winding slowly, in its silvery silence, through
richly-pastured farms; or running broad and rippling
over its beautiful bed of pearly shells and
golden pebbles, (with which it toys and sings as
merrily as an innocent-hearted child,) until its
waters contract and roll heavily and darkly beneath
the grove of giant oaks, elms and sycamores; but
soon, like the sullen flow of a dark heart, it breaks
angrily over the first obstruction. Thus you may

see the Brandywine, at one point, boiling savagely
over a broken bed of rocks, until its thick sheets of
foam slide, like an avalanche of snow, into a deep
pool, where it sends up a whispering voice, like
that which pervades a rustling audience when the
drop-curtain has shed its folds upon a scene that,
like the “Ancient Mariner,” has held each ear and
eye as with a magic spell.

This place is bound in, on either side, by an
almost perpendicular precipice of dark rocks; at
the top of which, among the crevices, grow a few
small cedars; but farther back, as the soil increases
in depth, the trees are larger, and form, upon that
eminence, a beautiful grove, where the twilight,
even at high noon, is held a delicious captive.
From the limbs of the largest elms hang long
waving vines, wrought, as you might think, into the
fantastic splendors of the richest pile of ornamental
Gothic, and

Those natural arbors are entirely devoid of underbrush,
and so perfectly carpeted with that evergreen
moss, that bends and rises elastic as you step, you
could not but imagine that there Titania held her
moonlit revelries! and the voice of the waters,
borne on the air down through the chasm, when
softened by the distance into music, seemed, indeed,
to be a melody furnished by invisible musicians
whilst nature held high festival.

It was to this place, one sunny afternoon in
September, that a pedestrian was attracted, by the
richness of the scene, from the main road that
wound around the side of the hill. He was not
more than eighteen years of age, and of a slender
constitution. For awhile his nervous dark eye
wandered from object to object; he saw the wild
fish-hawk circling high in heaven, and watched it
until at last it struck downwards at an acute angle
and disappeared beneath the waters; the youth
gazed at the spot until he beheld the bird rise again
and dash the flashing spray from his dusky wings.
It is a strange sensation to stand, as it were, a
sentinel on one of nature's own embattlements;—
to be the only human creature for the time that is
gazing on a scene of startling grandeur, — to be in
that situation when with one step we might plunge
our bodies into an eternal oblivion, where man
might never after dream of our destination! How
strange, too, is that dreadful impulse, which strives
in some under such circumstances, to gain the
ascendency over reason, and to draw them on to
fatal consequences! Such was the giddy feeling
with which the youth started back from the edge of
the precipice, almost trembling to think that one
moment more might have been too late! Let not
this be thought an evidence of cowardice; but
rather the effect of a most nervous imagination ever

on the stretch and cultivated far beyond the other
faculties of the mind. Paul Redding, for such was
the name of the young man, hurried away from
the scene, feeling a pressure upon his brain, for the
moment, almost intolerable; and emerging into the
calm recesses of the grove, threw himself upon a
mossy mound. The loveliness of the place soon
stole upon his senses. Little flowers were smiling
beside him; squirrels were leaping from limb to
limb, as fearlessly as though man were the usual
inhabitant of the scene; and Paul's imagination
once more freely played with the beautiful things
about him. His fancy whispered that perchance
some brave Indian chieftain slept beneath that old
oak, that reared its head so majestically to heaven,
a monument raised by pitying nature over her
warrior son. And he could not but sigh to think
that some gentle maid might be there, even beneath
the very mound on which he rested, without a line
or mark to tell where rests the innocent; yet could
he read a divine epitaph written with modest violets
upon a mossy tablet; — yes, an epitaph that nature
each year will renew, even when the mightiest
monuments have ceased to tell their tales! As
Paul beheld the slanting bars of sunlight, that
pierced through the deep retreat, he was reminded
of the distance which he had yet to go, and turning
from the grove he pursued his way for a moment;
but the magic spirit of the place had thrown, as it
were, its flowery fetters about his feet, and he
could not tear himself away. As he stood wrapped
in the hazy mantle, that the scene around and his
fancy had woven about him, he thought that those
grand old trees seemed with their broad brazen
faces to smile upon their smaller mates, while the
latter, covered with moving vines, appeared like
joyous maidens weaving garlands for their grim
lovers. But alas,
This scene induced Paul to strive and transcribe it
to paper. He sat down upon a stone, at a little
distance, beside an old apple-tree, whose blasted
trunk leant over almost to the earth. The youth
wondered how long it had been since that antiquated
fruit-bearer had been planted there. He saw down
by the road-side a large dilapidated square stone
building; but the great number of fruit-trees in the
vicinity of the house seemed to bear to fellowship
with this. Around him were the marks of old excavations,
with long grass growing over the stones
that filled them. Over one of these places evidently
had stood a house, that day after day had thrown
a time-marking shadow across the hill. Substance
and shadow, thought the youth, where are they?
The storms of many years have beaten one into
the earth, and the sun has picked up the other!
Those depressions in the sod seemed, indeed, like
the footprints of a past generation. How long,
sighed Paul, has it been since happy, fair-haired
children played at the door of this lost dwelling?
or gathered the ruddy-cheeked apples from this
tree, their own faces as beautiful and glowing?
Where are they now? Time has pressed his
finger upon the cheeks of some, leaving an indelible
print, while he now stands with green sandals
on the graves of others. In the midst of this
meditation, Paul's eye again reverted to the paper
and pencil; but he had revelled too deeply in the
grandeur and beauty of the scene to trace out with
cool precision each particular feature. The loveliness
of the landscape had been melting into his
very soul, and the urn was not yet full to overflowing.
When the spirit, which administers the
power to write or to draw, impels, it is imperative,
and he who writes or draws without the promptings
of that spirit, is profane! As the eye of the youth
again fell upon the paper, and as his ear caught the
music of the river, scarcely aware of what he did,
he traced these lines, which were the real outbursting
of a heart full of strange melodies:

Paul had proceeded thus far, when, suddenly, a
heavy shadow fell across the paper; he turned his
gaze hurriedly up, — there stood confronting him a
tall, gaunt figure, which, as it was situated exactly
between himself and the afternoon sun, seemed to
be at first but one dense shadow, with just sufficient
of the human form to make its appearance ghostly.
The young man started to his feet, and by so doing,
was enabled to discern the face and features of the
stranger, which were those of a tall, middle-aged
man, haggard and insane. His large, black eyes
flashed wildly from beneath dark, heavy brows;
his features were regular, and his complexion was
of that sombre hue, which is only seen on those
persons who are subject to all vicissitudes of wind
and sun. His locks were long and straggling, and
his cheeks deeply sunken. He wore a long, dark,
old-fashioned surtout; around his waist was tied a
large, parti-colored handkerchief, whilst another of

a similar character was fastened around his neck
outside of the upright coat-collar. Paul surveyed
him with wonder; and the mysterious man stood
leaning on a tall staff, gazing wildly on the youth;
his lips moving inaudibly, as though devoid of all
power of articulation. His lank hands, as they
grasped the top of the stick, seemed like those of a
skeleton, encased in shrivelled gloves. At last he
muttered aloud,

“Did you see them pass this way?”

“See what pass this way?” replied Paul.

“Ay, ay, I thought so,” said the man, looking
vacantly on the distance. A silence of some
moments ensued; in the mean time, Paul strove to
invent some plan by which he could draw something
satisfactory from the stranger, and therefore
requested him to sit down, at the same time pointing
to the stone seat beneath the old apple-tree.

“No! no! not there! not there!” cried the
stranger. “I 've been scraping the spots from the
floor with this blade!” as he spoke, he produced
a large, broad-bladed, buck-handled knife. “Yes,
with this blade,” he continued; “they say, that
which gives may take away; but oak is hard wood,
and it holds a stain as tightly as the conscience!”
With a loud hysterical laugh, the maniac hurried
away toward the wood, leaving the young man to
pursue his course and to draw his own conclusions.