CHAPTER XXXI.

The gaze these two persons bent on one another may be half imagined: it

can never be described.

Griffith spoke first. "In black!" said he, in a whisper.

His voice was low; his face, though pale and grim, had not the terrible

aspect he wore at parting.

So she thought he had come back in an amicable spirit; and she flew to

him, with a cry of love, and threw her arm round his neck, and panted on

his shoulder.

At this reception, and the tremulous contact of one he had loved so

dearly, a strange shudder ran through his frame,--a shudder that marked

his present repugnance, yet indicated her latent power.

He himself felt he had betrayed some weakness; and it was all the worse

for her. He caught her wrist and put her from him, not roughly, but with

a look of horror. "The day is gone by for that, madam," he gasped. Then,

sternly: "Think you I came here to play the credulous husband?"

Mrs. Gaunt drew back in her turn, and faltered out, "What! come back

here, and not sorry for what you have done? not the least sorry? O my

heart! you have almost broken it."

"Prithee, no more of this," said Griffith, sternly. "You and I are

naught to one another now, and forever. But there, you are but a woman,

and I did not come to quarrel with you." And he fixed his eyes on the

ground.

"Thank God for that," faltered Mrs. Gaunt. "O sir, the sight of you--the

thought of what you were to me once--till jealousy blinded you. Lend me

your arm, if you are a man; my limbs do fail me."

The shock had been too much; a pallor overspread her lovely features,

her knees knocked together, and she was tottering like some tender tree

cut down, when Griffith, who, with all his faults, was a man, put out

his strong arm, and she clung to it, quivering all over, and weeping

hysterically.

That little hand, with its little feminine clutch, trembling on his arm,

raised a certain male compassion for her piteous condition; and he

bestowed a few cold, sad words of encouragement on her. "Come, come,"

said he, gently; "I shall not trouble you long. I'm cured of my

jealousy. 'T is gone, along with my love. You and your saintly sinner

are safe from me. I am come hither for my own, my two thousand pounds,

and for nothing more."

"Ah! you are come back for money, not for me?" she murmured, with forced

calmness.

"For money, and not for you, of course," said he, coldly.

The words were hardly out of his mouth, when the proud lady flung his

arm from her. "Then money shall you have, and not me; nor aught of me

but my contempt."

But she could not carry it off as heretofore. She turned her back

haughtily on him; but, at the first step, she burst out crying, "Come,

and I'll give you what you are come for," she sobbed. "Ungrateful!

heartless! O, how little I knew this man!"

She crept away before him, drooping her head, and crying bitterly; and

he followed her, hanging his head, and ill at ease; for there was such

true passion in her voice, her streaming eyes, and indeed in her whole

body, that he was moved, and the part he was playing revolted him. He

felt confused and troubled, and asked himself how on earth it was that

she, the guilty one, contrived to appear the injured one, and made him,

the wronged one, feel almost remorseful.

* * * * *

Mrs. Gaunt took no more notice of him now than if he had been a dog

following at her heels. She went into the drawing-room, and sank

helplessly on the nearest couch, threw her head wearily back, and shut

her eyes. Yet the tears trickled through the closed lids.

Griffith caught up a hand-bell, and rang it vigorously.

Quick, light steps were soon heard pattering; and in darted Caroline

Ryder, with an anxious face; for of late she had conceived a certain

sober regard for her mistress, who had ceased to be her successful

rival, and who bore her grief _like a man_.

At sight of Griffith, Ryder screamed aloud, and stood panting.

Mrs. Gaunt opened her eyes. "Ay, child, he has come home," said she,

bitterly; "his body, but not his heart."

She stretched her hand out feebly, and pointed to a bottle of salts that

stood on the table. Ryder ran and put them to her nostrils. Mrs. Gaunt

whispered in her ear, "Send a swift horse for Father Francis; tell him

life or death!"

Ryder gave her a very intelligent look, and presently slipped out, and

ran into the stable-yard.

At the gate she caught sight of Griffith's horse. What does this

quick-witted creature do but send the groom off on that horse, and not

on Mrs. Gaunt's.

* * * * *

"Now, Dame," said Griffith, doggedly, "are you better?"

"Ay, I thank you."

"Then listen to me. When you and I set up house together, I had two

thousand pounds. I spent it on this house. The house is yours. You told

me so, one day, you know."

"Ah, you can remember my faults."

"I remember all, Kate."

"Thank you, at least, for calling me Kate. Well, Griffith, since you

abandoned us, I thought, and thought, and thought, of all that might

befall you; and I said, 'What will he do for money?' My jewels, that you

did me the honor to take, would not last you long, I feared. So I

reduced my expenses three fourths at least, and I put by some money for

your need."

Griffith looked amazed. "For my need?" said he.

"For whose else? I'll send for it, and place it in your

hands--to-morrow."

"To-morrow? Why not to-day?"

"I have a favor to ask of you first."

"What is that?"

"Justice. If you are fond of money, I too have something I prize: my

honor. You have belied and insulted me, sir; but I know you were under a

delusion. I mean to remove that delusion, and make you see how little I

am to blame; for, alas! I own I was imprudent. But, O Griffith, as I

hope to be saved, it was the imprudence of innocence and

over-confidence."

"Mistress," said Griffith, in a stern, yet agitated voice, "be advised,

and leave all this: rouse not a man's sleeping wrath. Let bygones be

bygones."

Mrs. Gaunt rose, and said, faintly, "So be it. I must go, sir, and give

some orders for your entertainment."

"O, don't put yourself about for me," said Griffith: "I am not the

master of this house."

Mrs. Gaunt's lip trembled, but she was a match for him. "Then are you my

guest," said she; "and my credit is concerned in your comfort."

She made him a courtesy, as if he were a stranger, and marched to the

door, concealing, with great pride and art, a certain trembling of her

knees.

At the door she found Ryder, and bade her follow, much to that lady's

disappointment; for she desired a _tete-a-tete_ with Griffith, and an

explanation.

As soon as the two women were out of Griffith's hearing, the mistress

laid her hand on the servant's arm, and, giving way to her feelings,

said, all in a flutter: "Child, if I have been a good mistress to thee,

show it now. Help me keep him in the house till Father Francis comes."

"I undertake to do so much," said Ryder, firmly. "Leave it to me,

mistress."

Mrs. Gaunt threw her arms round Ryder's neck and kissed her.

It was done so ardently, and by a woman hitherto so dignified and proud,

that Ryder was taken by surprise, and almost affected.

As for the service Mrs. Gaunt had asked of her, it suited her own

designs.

"Mistress," said she, "be ruled by me; keep out of his way a bit, while

I get Miss Rose ready. You understand."

"Ah! I have one true friend in the house," said poor Mrs. Gaunt. She

then confided in Ryder, and went away to give her own orders for

Griffith's reception.

Ryder found little Rose, dressed her to perfection, and told her her

dear papa was come home. She then worked upon the child's mind in that

subtle way known to women, so that Rose went down stairs loaded and

primed, though no distinct instructions had been given her.

As for Griffith, he walked up and down, uneasy; and wished he had stayed

at the "Packhorse." He had not bargained for all these emotions; the

peace of mind he had enjoyed for some months seemed trickling away.

"Mercy, my dear," said he to himself, "'t will be a dear penny to me, I

doubt."

Then he went to the window, and looked at the lawn, and sighed. Then he

sat down, and thought of the past.

Whilst he sat thus moody, the door opened very softly, and a little

cherubic face, with blue eyes and golden hair, peeped in. Griffith

started. "Ah!" cried Rose, with a joyful scream; and out flew her little

arms, and away she came, half running, half dancing, and was on his knee

in a moment, with her arms round his neck.

"Papa! papa!" she cried. "O my dear, dear, dear, darling papa!" And she

kissed and patted his cheek again and again.

Her innocent endearments moved him to tears. "My pretty angel!" he

sighed: "my lamb!"

"How your heart beats! Don't cry, dear papa. Nobody is dead: only we

thought you were. I'm so glad you are come home alive. Now we can take

off this nasty black: I hate it."

"What, 't is for me you wear it, pretty one?"

"Ay. Mamma made us. Poor mamma has been so unhappy. And that reminds me:

you are a wicked man, papa. But I love you all one for that. It _tis_ so

dull when everybody is good like mamma; and she makes me dreadfully good

too; but now you are come back, there will be a little, little

wickedness again, it is to be hoped. Aren't you glad you are not dead,

and are come home instead? I am."

"I am glad I have seen thee. Come, take my hand, and let us go look at

the old place."

"Ay. But you must wait till I get on my new hat and feather."

"Nay, nay; art pretty enough bare-headed."

"O papa! but I must, for decency. You are company now; you know."

"Dull company, sweetheart, thou 'lt find me."

"I don't mean that: I mean, when you were here always, you were only

papa; but now you come once in an age, you're COMPANY. I won't budge

without 'em; so there, now."

"Well, little one, I do submit to thy hat and feather; only be quick, or

I shall go forth without thee."

"If you dare," said Rose impetuously; "for I won't be half a moment."

She ran and extorted from Ryder the new hat and feather, which by rights

she was not to have worn until next month.

Griffith and his little girl went all over the well-known premises, he

sad and moody, she excited and chattering, and nodding her head down,

and cocking her eye up every now and then, to get a glimpse of her

feather.

"And don't you go away again, dear papa. It _tis_ so dull without you.

Nobody comes here. Mamma won't let 'em."

"Nobody except Father Leonard," said Griffith, bitterly.

"Father Leonard? Why, he never comes here. Leonard! That is the

beautiful priest that used to pat me on the head, and bid me love and

honor my parents. And so I do. Only mamma is always crying, and you keep

away; so how can I love and honor you, when I never see you, and they

keep telling me you are good for nothing, and dead."

"My young mistress, when did you see Father Leonard last?" said

Griffith, gnawing his lip.

"How can I tell? Why, it was miles ago; when I was a mere girl. You know

he went away before you did."

"I know nothing of the kind. Tell me the truth now. He has visited here

since I went away."

"Nay, papa."

"That is strange. She visits him, then?"

"What, mamma? She seldom stirs out; and never beyond the village. We

keep no carriage now. Mamma is turned such a miser. She is afraid you

will be poor; so she puts it all by for you. But now you are come, we

shall have carriages and things again. O, by the by, Father Leonard! I

heard them say he had left England, so I did."

"When was that?"

"Well, I think that was a little bit after you went away."

"That is strange," said Griffith, thoughtfully.

He led his little girl by the hand, but scarcely listened to her

prattle; he was so surprised and puzzled by the information he had

elicited from her.

Upon the whole, however, he concluded that his wife and the priest had

perhaps been smitten with remorse, and had parted--when it was too late.

This, and the peace of mind he had found elsewhere, somewhat softened

his feelings towards them. "So," thought he, "they were not hardened

creatures after all. Poor Kate!"

As these milder feelings gained on him, Rose suddenly uttered a joyful

cry; and, looking up, he saw Mrs. Gaunt coming towards him, and Ryder

behind her. Both were in gay colors, which, in fact, was what had so

delighted Rose.

They came up, and Mrs. Gaunt seemed a changed woman. She looked young

and beautiful, and bent a look of angelic affection on her daughter; and

said to Griffith, "Is she not grown? Is she not lovely? Sure you will

never desert her again."

"'T was not her I deserted, but her mother; and she had played me false

with her d----d priest," was Griffith's reply.

Mrs. Gaunt drew back with horror. "This, before my girl?" she cried.

"GRIFFITH GAUNT, YOU LIE!"

And this time it was the woman who menaced the man. She rose to six

feet high, and advanced on him with her great gray eyes flashing flames

at him. "O that I were a man!" she cried: "this insult should be the

last. I'd lay you dead at her feet and mine."

Griffith actually drew back a step; for the wrath of such a woman was

terrible,--more terrible perhaps to a brave man than to a coward.

Then he put his hands in his pockets with a dogged air, and said,

grinding his teeth, "But--as you are not a man, and I'm not a woman, we

can't settle it that way. So I give you the last word, and good day. I'm

sore in want of money; but I find I can't pay the price it is like to

cost me. Farewell."

"Begone!" said Mrs. Gaunt: "and, this time, forever. Ruffian, and fool,

I loathe the sight of you."

Rose ran weeping to her. "O mamma, don't quarrel with papa": then back

to Griffith, "O papa, don't quarrel with mamma,--for my sake."

Griffith hung his head, and said, in a broken voice: "No, my lamb, we

twain must not quarrel before thee. We will part in silence, as becomes

those that once were dear, and have thee to show for 't. Madam, I wish

you all health and happiness. Adieu."

He turned on his heel; and Mrs. Gaunt took Rose to her knees, and bent

and wept over her. Niobe over her last was not more graceful, nor more

sad.

As for Ryder, she stole quietly after her retiring master. She found him

peering about, and asked him demurely what he was looking for.

"My good black horse, girl, to take me from this cursed place. Did I not

tie him to yon gate?"

"The black horse? Why I sent him for Father Francis. Nay, listen to me,

master; you know I was always your friend, and hard upon _her_. Well,

since you went, things have come to pass that make me doubt. I do begin

to fear you were too hasty."

"Do you tell me this now, woman?" cried Griffith, furiously.

"How could I tell you before? Why did you break your tryst with me? If

you had come according to your letter, I'd have told you months ago what

I tell you now; but, as I was saying, the priest never came near her

after you left; and she never stirred abroad to meet him. More than

that, he has left England."

"Remorse! Too late."

"Perhaps it may, sir. I couldn't say; but there is one coming that knows

the very truth."

"Who is that?"

"Father Francis. The moment you came, sir, I took it on me to send for

him. You know the man: he won't tell a lie to please our dame. And he

knows all; for Leonard has confessed to him. I listened, and heard him

say as much. Then, master, be advised, and get the truth from Father

Francis."

Griffith trembled. "Francis is an honest man," said he; "I'll wait till

he comes. But O, my lass, I find money may be bought too dear."

"Your chamber is ready, sir, and your clothes put out. Supper is

ordered. Let me show you your room. We are all so happy now."

"Well," said he, listlessly, "since my horse is gone, and Francis

coming, and I'm wearied and sick of the world, do what you will with me

for this one day."

He followed her mechanically to a bedroom, where was a bright fire, and

a fine shirt, and his silver-laced suit of clothes airing.

A sense of luxurious comfort struck him at the sight.

"Ay," said he, "I'll dress, and so to supper; I'm main hungry. It seems

a man must eat, let his heart be ever so sore."

Before she left him, Ryder asked him coldly why he had broken his

appointment with her.

"That is too long a story to tell you now," said he, coolly.

"Another time then," said she; and went out smiling, but bitter at

heart.

Griffith had a good wash, and enjoyed certain little conveniences which

he had not at the "Packhorse." He doffed his riding suit, and donned the

magnificent dress Ryder had selected for him; and with his fine clothes

he somehow put on more ceremonious manners.

He came down to the dining-room. To his surprise he found it illuminated

with wax candles, and the table and sideboard gorgeous with plate.

Supper soon smoked upon the board; but, though it was set for three,

nobody else appeared.

Griffith inquired of Ryder whether he was to sup alone.

She replied: "My mistress desires you not to wait for her. She has no

stomach."

"Well, then, I have," said Griffith, and fell to with a will.

Ryder, who waited on this occasion, stood and eyed him with curiosity:

his conduct was so unlike a woman's.

Just as he concluded, the door opened, and a burly form entered.

Griffith rose, and embraced him with his arms and lips, after the

fashion of the day. "Welcome, thou one honest priest!" said he.

"Welcome, thrice welcome, my long lost son!" said the cordial Francis.

"Sit down, man, and eat with me. I'll begin again, for you."

"Presently, Squire; I've work to do first. Go thou and bid thy mistress

come hither to me."

Ryder, to whom this was addressed, went out, and left the gentlemen

together.

Father Francis drew out of his pocket two packets, carefully tied and

sealed. He took a knife from the table and cut the strings, and broke

the seals. Griffith eyed him with curiosity.

Father Francis looked at him. "These," said he, very gravely, "are the

letters that Brother Leonard hath written, at sundry times, to Catharine

Gaunt, and these are the letters Catharine Gaunt hath written to Brother

Leonard."

Griffith trembled, and his face was convulsed.

"Let me read them at once," said he: and stretched out his hand, with

eyes like a dog's in the dark.

Francis withdrew them, quietly. "Not till she is also present," said he.

At that Griffith's good-nature, multiplied by a good supper, took the

alarm. "Come, come, sir," said he, "have a little mercy. I know you are

a just man, and, though a boon companion, most severe in all matters of

morality. But, I tell you plainly, if you are going to drag this poor

woman in the dirt, I shall go out of the room. What is the use

tormenting her? I've told her my mind before her own child: and now I

wish I had not. When I caught them in the grove I lifted my hand to

strike her, and she never winced; I had better have left that alone too,

methinks. D--n the women: you are always in the wrong if you treat 'em

like men. They are not wicked: they are weak. And this one hath lain in

my bosom, and borne me two children, and one he lieth in the churchyard,

and t' other hath her hair and my very eyes: and the truth is, I can't

bear any man on earth to miscall her, but myself. God help me; I doubt I

love her still too well to sit by and see her tortured. She was all in

black for her fault, poor penitent wretch. Give me the letters; but let

her be."

Francis was moved by this appeal, but shook his head solemnly; and, ere

Griffith could renew his argument, the door was flung open by Ryder, and

a stately figure sailed in, that took both the gentlemen by surprise.

It was Mrs. Gaunt, in full dress. Rich brocade that swept the ground;

magnificent bust, like Parian marble varnished; and on her brow a diadem

of emeralds and diamonds that gave her beauty an imperial stamp.

She swept into the room as only fine women can sweep, made Griffith a

haughty courtesy, and suddenly lowered her head, and received Father

Francis's blessing: then seated herself, and quietly awaited events.

"The brazen jade!" thought Griffith. "But how divinely beautiful!" And

he became as agitated as she was calm--in appearance. For need I say her

calmness was put on? Defensive armor made for her by her pride and her

sex.

The voice of Father Francis now rose, solid, grave, and too impressive

to be interrupted.

"My daughter, and you who are her husband and my friend, I am here to do

justice between you both, with God's help; and to show you both your

faults. Catharine Gaunt, you began the mischief, by encouraging another

man to interfere between you and your husband in things secular."

"But, father, he was my director, my priest."

"My daughter, do you believe, with the Protestants, that marriage is a

mere civil contract; or do you hold, with us, that it is one of the holy

sacraments?"

"Can you ask me?" murmured Kate, reproachfully.

"Well, then, those whom God and the whole Church have in holy sacrament

united, what right hath a single priest to disunite in heart, and make

the wife false to any part whatever of that most holy vow? I hear, and

not from you, that Leonard did set you against your husband's friends,

withdrew you from society, and sent him abroad alone. In one word, he

robbed your husband of his companion and his friend. The sin was

Leonard's; but the fault was yours. You were five years older than

Leonard, and a woman of sense and experience; he but a boy by

comparison. What right had you to surrender your understanding, in a

matter of this kind, to a poor silly priest, fresh from his seminary,

and as manifestly without a grain of common sense as he was full of

piety?"

This remonstrance produced rather a striking effect on both those who

heard it. Mrs. Gaunt seemed much struck with it. She leaned back in her

chair, and put her hand to her brow with a sort of despairing gesture

that Griffith could not very well understand, it seemed to him so

disproportionate.

It softened him, however, and he faltered out, "Ay, father, that is how

it all began. Would to heaven it had stopped there."

Francis resumed. "This false step led to consequences you never dreamed

of; for one of your romantic notions is, that a priest is an angel. I

have known you, in former times, try to take me for an angel: then would

I throw cold water on your folly by calling lustily for chines of beef

and mugs of ale. But I suppose Leonard thought himself an angel too; and

the upshot was, he fell in love with his neighbor's wife."

"And she with him," groaned Griffith.

"Not so," said Francis; "but perhaps she was nearer it than she thinks."

"Prove that," said Mrs. Gaunt, "and I'll fall on my knees to him before

you."

Francis smiled, and proceeded. "To be sure, from the moment you

discovered Leonard was in love with you, you drew back, and conducted

yourself with prudence and propriety. Read these letters, sir, and tell

me what you think of them."

He handed them to Griffith. Griffith's hand trembled visibly as he took

them.

"Stay," said Father Francis; "your better way will be to read the whole

correspondence according to the dates. Begin with this of Mrs. Gaunt's."

Griffith read the letter in an audible whisper.

Mrs. Gaunt listened with all her ears.

"DEAR FATHER AND FRIEND,--The words you spoke to me to-day

admit but one meaning; you are jealous of my husband.

"Then you must be--how can I write it?--almost in love with me.

"So then my poor husband was wiser than I. He saw a rival in

you: and he has one.

"I am deeply, deeply shocked. I ought to be very angry too;

but, thinking of your solitary condition, and all the good you

have done to my soul, my heart has no place for aught but pity.

Only, as I am in my senses, and you are not, you must now obey

me, as heretofore I have obeyed you. You must seek another

sphere of duty, without delay.

"These seem harsh words from me to you. You will live to see

they are kind ones.

"Write me one line, and no more, to say you will be ruled by me

in this.

"God and the saints have you in their holy keeping. So prays

your affectionate and

"Sorrowful daughter and true friend,

"CATHARINE GAUNT."

"Poor soul!" said Griffith. "Said I not that women are not wicked, but

weak? Who would think that after this he could get the better of her

good resolves,--the villain!"

"Now read his reply," said Father Francis.

"Ay," said Griffith. "So this is his one word of reply, is it? three

pages closely writ,--the villain, O the villain!"

"Read the villain's letter," said Francis, calmly.

The letter was very humble and pathetic,--the reply of a good, though

erring man, who owned that in a moment of weakness he had been betrayed

into a feeling inconsistent with his holy profession. He begged his

correspondent, however, not to judge him quite so hardly. He reminded

her of his solitary life, his natural melancholy, and assured her that

all men in his condition had moments when they envied those whose bosoms

had partners. "Such a cry of anguish," said he, "was once wrung from a

maiden queen, maugre all her pride. The Queen of Scots hath a son; and I

am but a barren stock." He went on to say that prayer and vigilance

united do much. "Do not despair so soon of me. Flight is not cure: let

me rather stay, and, with God's help and the saints', overcome this

unhappy weakness. If I fail, it will indeed be time for me to go, and

never again see the angelic face of my daughter and my benefactress."

Griffith laid down the letter. He was somewhat softened by it, and said,

gently, "I cannot understand it. This is not the letter of a thorough

bad man neither."

"No," said Father Francis, coldly, "'t is the letter of a self-deceiver;

and there is no more dangerous man to himself and others than your

self-deceiver. But now let us see whether he can throw dust in her eyes,

as well as his own." And he handed him Kate's reply.

The first word of it was, "You deceive yourself." The writer then

insisted, quietly, that he owed it to himself, to her, and to her

husband, whose happiness he was destroying, to leave the place at her

request.

"Either you must go, or I," said she: "and pray let it be you. Also,

this place is unworthy of your high gifts: and I love you, in my way,

the way I mean to love you when we meet again--in heaven; and I labor

your advancement to a sphere more worthy of you."

* * * * *

I wish space permitted me to lay the whole correspondence before the

reader; but I must confine myself to its general purport.

It proceeded in this way: the priest, humble, eloquent, pathetic; but

gently, yet pertinaciously, clinging to the place: the lady, gentle,

wise, and firm, detaching with her soft fingers, first one hand, then

another, of the poor priest's, till at last he was driven to the sorry

excuse that he had no money to travel with, nor place to go to.

"I can't understand it," said Griffith. "Are these letters all forged,

or are there two Kate Gaunts? the one that wrote these prudent letters,

and the one I caught upon this very priest's arm. Perdition!"

Mrs. Gaunt started to her feet. "Methinks 'tis time for me to leave the

room," said she, scarlet.

"Gently, my good friends; one thing at a time," said Francis. "Sit thou

down, impetuous. The letters, sir,--what think you of them?"

"I see no harm in them," said Griffith.

"No harm! Is that all? But I say these are very remarkable letters, sir:

and they show us that a woman may be innocent and unsuspicious, and so

seem foolish, yet may be wise for all that. In her early communication

with Leonard,

'At Wisdom's gate Suspicion slept;

And thought no ill where no ill seemed.'

But, you see, suspicion being once aroused, wisdom was not to be lulled

nor blinded. But that is not all: these letters breathe a spirit of

Christian charity; of true, and rare, and exalted piety. Tender are

they, without passion; wise, yet not cold; full of conjugal love, and of

filial pity for an erring father, whom she leads, for his good, with

firm yet dutiful hand. Trust to my great experience: doubt the chastity

of snow rather than hers who could write these pure and exquisite lines.

My good friend, you heard me rebuke and sneer at this poor lady for

being too innocent and unsuspicious of man's frailty: now hear me own to

you that I could no more have written these angelic letters than a

barn-door fowl could soar to the mansions of the saints in heaven."

This unexpected tribute took Mrs. Gaunt's heart by storm; she threw her

arms round Father Francis's neck, and wept upon his shoulder.

"Ah!" she sobbed, "you are the only one left that loves me."

She could not understand justice praising her: it must be love.

"Ay," said Griffith, in a broken voice, "she writes like an angel: she

speaks like an angel: she looks like an angel. My heart says she is an

angel. But my eyes have shown me she is naught. I left her, unable to

walk, by her way of it; I came back and found her on that priest's arm,

springing along like a greyhound." He buried his head in his hands, and

groaned aloud.

Francis turned to Mrs. Gaunt, and said, a little severely, "How do you

account for that?"

"I'll tell _you_, Father," said Kate, "because you love me. I do not

speak to _you_, sir: for you never loved me."

"I could give thee the lie," said Griffith, in a trembling voice; "but

'tis not worth while. Know, sir, that within twenty-four hours after I

caught her with that villain, I lay a-dying for her sake; and lost my

wits; and, when I came to, they were a-making my shroud in the very room

where I lay. No matter; no matter; I never loved her."

"Alas! poor soul!" sighed Kate. "Would I had died ere I brought thee to

that!" And, with this, they both began to cry at the same moment.

"Ay, poor fools," said Father Francis, softly; "neither of ye loved t'

other; that is plain. So now sit you there, and let us have your

explanation; for you must own appearances are strong against you."

Mrs. Gaunt drew her stool to Francis's knee; and addressing herself to

him alone, explained as follows:--

"I saw Father Leonard was giving way, and only wanted one good push,

after a manner. Well, you know I had got him, by my friends, a good

place in Ireland: and I had money by me for his journey; so, when my

husband talked of going to the fair, I thought, 'O, if I could but get

this settled to his mind before he comes back!' So I wrote a line to

Leonard. You can read it if you like. 'T is dated the 30th of September,

I suppose."

"I will," said Francis, and read this out:--

"DEAR FATHER AND FRIEND,--You have fought the good fight, and

conquered. Now, therefore, I _will_see you once more, and thank

you for my husband (he is so unhappy), and put the money for

your journey into your hand myself,--your journey to Ireland.

You are the Duke of Leinster's chaplain; for I have accepted

that place for you. Let me see you to-morrow in the Grove, for

a few minutes, at high noon. God bless you.

"CATHARINE GAUNT."

"Well, father," said Mrs. Gaunt, "'t is true that I could only walk two

or three times across the room. But, alack, you know what women are:

excitement gives us strength. With thinking that our unhappiness was at

an end,--that, when he should come back from the fair, I should fling my

arm round his neck, and tell him I had removed the cause of his misery,

and so of mine,--I seemed to have wings; and I did walk with Leonard,

and talked with rapture of the good he was to do in Ireland, and how he

was to be a mitred abbot one day (for he is a great man), and poor

little me be proud of him; and how we were all to be happy together in

heaven, where is no marrying nor giving in marriage. This was our

discourse; and I was just putting the purse into his hands, and bidding

him God-speed, when he--for whom I fought against my woman's nature, and

took this trying task upon me--broke in upon us, with the face of a

fiend; trampled on the poor, good priest, that deserved veneration and

consolation from him, of all men; and raised his hand to me; and was not

man enough to kill me after all; but called me--ask him what he called

me--see if he dares to say it again before you; and then ran away,

like a coward as he is, from the lady he had defiled with his rude

tongue, and the heart he had broken. Forgive him? that I never

will,--never,--never."

"Who asked you to forgive him?" said the shrewd priest. "Your own heart.

Come, look at him."

"Not I," said she, irresolutely. Then, still more feebly: "He is naught

to me." And so stole a look at him.

Griffith, pale as ashes, had his hand on his brow, and his eyes were

fixed with horror and remorse.

"Something tells me she has spoken the truth," he said, in a quavering

voice. Then, with concentrated horror, "But if so--O God, what have I

done?--What shall I do?"

Mrs. Gaunt extended her arms towards him across the priest.

"Why, fall at thy wife's knees and ask her to forgive thee."

Griffith obeyed: he fell on his knees, and Mrs. Gaunt leaned her head on

Francis's shoulder, and gave her hand across him to her remorse-stricken

husband.

Neither spoke, nor desired to speak; and even Father Francis sat silent,

and enjoyed that sweet glow which sometimes blesses the peacemaker, even

in this world of wrangles and jars.

But the good soul had ridden hard, and the neglected meats emitted

savory odors; and by and by he said dryly, "I wonder whether that fat

pullet tastes as well as it smells: can you tell me, Squire?"

"O, inhospitable wretch that I am!" said Mrs. Gaunt: "I thought but of

my own heart."

"And forgot the stomach of your unspiritual father. But, my dear, you

are pale, you tremble."

"'T is nothing, sir: I shall soon be better. Sit you down and sup: I

will return anon."

She retired, not to make a fuss; but her heart palpitated violently, and

she had to sit down on the stairs.

Ryder, who was prowling about, found her there, and fetched her

hartshorn.

Mrs. Gaunt got better; but felt so languid, and also hysterical, that

she retired to her own room for the night, attended by the faithful

Ryder, to whom she confided that a reconciliation had taken place, and,

to celebrate it, gave her a dress she had only worn a year. This does

not sound queenly to you ladies; but know that a week's wear tells far

more on the flimsy trash you wear now-a-days, than a year did on the

glorious silks of Lyons Mrs. Gaunt put on; thick as broadcloth, and

embroidered so cunningly by the loom, that it would pass for rarest

needle-work. Besides, in those days, silk was silk.

As Ryder left her, she asked, "Where is master to lie to-night?"

Mrs. Gaunt was not pleased at this question being put to her. She would

have preferred to leave that to Griffith. And, as she was a singular

mixture of frankness and finesse, I believe she had retired to her own

room partly to test Griffith's heart. If he was as sincere as she was,

he would not be content with a public reconciliation.

But the question being put to her plump, and by one of her own sex, she

colored faintly, and said, "Why, is there not a bed in his room?"

"O yes, madam."

"Then see it be well aired. Put down all the things before the fire; and

then tell me: I'll come and see. The feather-bed, mind, as well as the

sheets and blankets."

Ryder executed all this with zeal. She did more; though Griffith and

Francis sat up very late, she sat up too; and, on the gentlemen leaving

the supper-room, she met them both, with bed-candles, in a delightful

cap, and undertook, with cordial smiles, to show them both their

chambers.

"Tread softly on the landing, an if it please you, gentlemen. My

mistress hath been unwell; but she is in a fine sleep now, by the

blessing, and I would not have her disturbed."

Good, faithful, single-hearted Ryder!

Father Francis went to bed thoughtful. There was something about

Griffith he did not like: the man every now and then broke out into

boisterous raptures, and presently relapsed into moody thoughtfulness.

Francis almost feared that his cure was only temporary.

In the morning, before he left, he drew Mrs. Gaunt aside, and told her

his misgivings. She replied that she thought she knew what was amiss,

and would soon set that right.

Griffith tossed and turned in his bed, and spent a stormy night. His

mind was in a confused whirl, and his heart distracted. The wife he had

loved so tenderly proved to be the very reverse of all he had lately

thought her! She was pure as snow, and had always loved him; loved him

now, and only wanted a good excuse to take him to her arms again. But

Mercy Vint!--his wife, his benefactress! a woman as chaste as Kate, as

strict in life and morals,--what was to become of her? How could he tell

her she was not his wife? how reveal to her her own calamity, and his

treason? And, on the other hand, desert her without a word! and leave

her hoping, fearing, pining, all her life! Affection, humanity,

gratitude, alike forbade it.

He came down in the morning, pale for him, and worn with the inward

struggle.

Naturally there was a restraint between him and Mrs. Gaunt; and only

short sentences passed between them.

He saw the peacemaker off, and then wandered all over the premises, and

the past came nearer, and the present seemed to retire into the

background.

He wandered about like one in a dream; and was so self-absorbed, that he

did not see Mrs. Gaunt coming towards him, with observant eyes.

She met him full; he started like a guilty thing.

"Are you afraid of me?" said she, sweetly.

"No, my dear, not exactly; and yet I am: afraid, or ashamed, or both."

"You need not. I said I forgive you; and you know I am not one that does

things by halves."

"You are an angel!" said he, warmly; "but" (suddenly relapsing into

despondency) "we shall never be happy together again."

She sighed. "Say not so. Time and sweet recollections may heal even this

wound by degrees."

"God grant it," said he, despairingly.

"And, though we can't be lovers again all at once, we may be friends.

To begin, tell me, what have you on your mind? Come, make a friend of

me."

He looked at her in alarm.

She smiled. "Shall I guess?" said she.

"You will never guess," said he; "and I shall never have the heart to

tell you."

"Let me try. Well, I think you have run in debt, and are afraid to ask

me for the money."

Griffith was greatly relieved by this conjecture; he drew a long breath;

and, after a pause, said cunningly, "What made you think that?"

"Because you came here for money, and not for happiness. You told me so

in the Grove."

"That is true. What a sordid wretch you must think me!"

"No, because you were under a delusion. But I do believe you are just

the man to turn reckless, when you thought me false, and go drinking and

dicing." She added eagerly, "I do not suspect you of anything worse."

He assured her that was not the way of it.

"Then tell me the way of it. You must not think, because I pester you

not with questions, I have no curiosity. O, how often I have longed to

be a bird, and watch you day and night unseen! How would you have liked

that? I wish you had been one, to watch me. Ah, you don't answer. Could

you have borne so close an inspection, sir?"

Griffith shuddered at the idea; and his eyes fell before the full gray

orbs of his wife.

"Well, never mind," said she. "Tell me your story."

"Well, then, when I left you, I was raving mad."

"That is true, I'll be sworn."

"I let my horse go; and he took me near a hundred miles from here, and

stopped at--at--a farm-house. The good people took me in."

"God bless them for it. I'll ride and thank them."

"Nay, nay; 't is too far. There I fell sick of a fever, a brain-fever:

the doctor blooded me."

"Alas! would he had taken mine instead."

"And I lost my wits for several days; and when I came back, I was weak

as water, and given up by the doctor; and the first thing I saw was an

old hag set a-making of my shroud."

Here the narrative was interrupted a moment by Mrs. Gaunt seizing him

convulsively; and then holding him tenderly, as if he was even now about

to be taken from her.

"The good people nursed me, and so did their daughter, and I came back

from the grave. I took an inn; but I gave up that, and had to pay

forfeit; and so my money all went; but they kept me on. To be sure I

helped on the farm: they kept a hostelry as well. By and by came that

murrain among the cattle. Did you have it in these parts, too?"

"I know not; nor care. Prithee, leave cattle, and talk of thyself."

"Well, in a word, they were ruined, and going to be sold up. I could not

bear that: I became bondsman for the old man. It was the least I could

do. Kate, they had saved thy husband's life."

"Not a word more, Griffith. How much stand you pledged for?"

"A large sum."

"Would five hundred pounds be of any avail?"

"Five hundred pounds! Ay, that it would, and to spare; but where can I

get so much money? And the time so short."

"Give me thy hand, and come with me," said Mrs. Gaunt, ardently.

She took his hand, and made a swift rush across the lawn. It was not

exactly running, nor walking, but some grand motion she had when

excited. She put him to his stride to keep up with her at all; and in

two minutes she had him into her boudoir. She unlocked a bureau, all in

a hurry, and took out a bag of gold. "There!" she cried, thrusting it

into his hand, and blooming all over with joy and eagerness: "I thought

you would want money; so I saved it up. You shall not be in debt a day

longer. Now mount thy horse, and carry it to those good souls; only, for

my sake, take the gardener with thee,--I have no groom now but he,--and

both well armed."

"What! go this very day?"

"Ay, this very hour. I can bear thy absence for a day or two more,--I

have borne it so long; but I cannot bear thy plighted word to stand in

doubt a day, no, not an hour. I am your wife, sir, your true and loving

wife: your honor is mine, and is as dear to me now as it was when you

saw me with Father Leonard in the Grove, and read me all awry. Don't

wait a moment. Begone at once."

"Nay, nay, if I go to-morrow, I shall be in time."

"Ay, but," said Mrs. Gaunt, very softly, "I am afraid if I keep you

another hour I shall not have the heart to let you go at all; and the

sooner gone, the sooner back for good, please God. There, give me one

kiss, to live on, and begone this instant."

He covered her hands with kisses and tears. "I'm not worthy to kiss any

higher than thy hand," he said, and so ran sobbing from her.

He went straight to the stable, and saddled Black Dick.

INDIAN MEDICINE.

Every one who has fed his boyish fancy with the stories of pioneers and

hunters has heard of the character known among Indians as the

"medicine-man." But it may very likely be the case that few of those

familiar with the term really know the import of the word. A somewhat

protracted residence among the Blackfoot tribe of Indians, and an

extensive observation of men and manners as they appear in the wilder

parts of the Rocky Mountains and British America, have enabled the

writer to give some facts which may not prove wholly uninteresting.

By the term "medicine" much more is implied than mere curative drugs, or

a system of curative practice. Among all the tribes of American Indians,

the word is used with a double signification,--a literal and narrow

meaning, and a general and rather undefined application. It signifies

not only physical remedies and the art of using them, but second-sight,

prophecy, and preternatural power. As an adjective, it embraces the idea

of supernatural as well as remedial.

As an example of the use of the word in its mystic signification, the

following may be given. The _horse_, as is well known, was to the

Indian, on its first importation, a strange and terrible beast. Having

no native word by which to designate this hitherto unknown creature, the

Indians contrived a name by combining the name of some familiar animal,

most nearly resembling the horse, with the "medicine" term denoting

astonishment or awe. Consequently the Blackfeet, adding to the word

"Elk" (_Pounika_) the adjective "medicine" (_tos_) called the horse

_Pou-nika-ma-ta_, i. e. Medicine Elk. This word is still their

designation for a horse.

With this idea of medicine, and recollecting that the word is used to

express two classes of thoughts very different, and separated by

civilization, though confounded by the savage, it will not surprise one

to find that the medicine-men are conjurers as well as doctors, and that

their conjurations partake as much of medical quackery as does their

medical practice of affected incantation. As physicians, the

medicine-men are below contempt, and, but for the savage cruelty of

their ignorance, undeserving of notice. The writer has known a man to

have his uvula and palate torn out by a medicine-man. In that case the

disease was a hacking cough caused by an elongation of the uvula; and

the remedy adopted (after preparatory singing, dancing, burning buffalo

hair, and other conjurations) was to seize the uvula with a pair of

bullet-moulds, and tear from the poor wretch every tissue that would

give way. Death of course ensued in a short time. The unfortunate man

had, however, died in "able hands," and according to the "highest

principles of [Indian] medical art."

Were I to tell how barbarously I have seen men mutilated, simply to

extract an arrow-head from a wound, the story would scarce be credited.

Common sense has no place in the system of Indian medicine-men, nor do

they appear to have gained an idea, beyond the rudest, from experience.

In their quality of seers, however, they are more important, and

frequently more successful persons, attaining, of course, various

degrees of proficiency and reputation. An accomplished dreamer has a

sure competency in that gift. He is reverently consulted, handsomely

paid, and, in general, strictly obeyed. His influence, when once

established, is more potent even than that of a war chief. The dignity

and profit of the position are baits sufficient to command the attention

and ambition of the ablest men; yet it is not unfrequently the case that

persons otherwise undistinguished are noted for clear and strong powers

of "medicine."

Of the three most distinguished medicine-men known to the writer, but

one was a man of powerful intellect. Even this person preferred a

somewhat sedentary, and what might be called a strictly professional

life, to the usual active habits of the hunting and warring tribes. He

dwelt almost alone on a far northern branch of the Saskatchewan River,

revered for his gifts, feared for his power, and always approached with

something of reluctance by the Indians, who firmly believed the spirit

of the gods to dwell within him. He was an austere and taciturn man,

difficult of access, and as vain and ambitious as he was haughty and

contemptuous. Those who professed to have witnessed the scene told of a

trial of power between this man--the Black Snake, as he was called--and

a renowned medicine-man of a neighboring tribe. The contest, from what

the Indians said, must have occurred about 1855.

The rival medicine-men, each furnished with his medicine-bag, his

amulets, and other professional paraphernalia, arrayed in full dress,

and covered with war-paint, met in the presence of a great concourse.

Both had prepared for the encounter by long fasting and conjurations.

After the pipe, which precedes all important councils, the medicine-men

sat down opposite to each other, a few feet apart. The trial of power

seems to have been conducted on principles of animal magnetism, and

lasted a long while without decided advantage on either side; until the

Black Snake, concentrating all his power, or "gathering his medicine,"

in a loud voice commanded his opponent to die. The unfortunate conjurer

succumbed, and in a few minutes "his spirit," as my informant said,

"went beyond the Sand Buttes." The only charm or amulet ever used by the

Black Snake is said to have been a small bean-shaped pebble suspended

round his neck by a cord of moose sinew. He had his books, it is true,

but they were rarely exhibited.[E]

The death of his rival, by means so purely non-mechanical or physical,

gave the Black Snake a pre-eminence in "medicine" which he has ever

since maintained. It was useless to suggest poison, deception, or

collusion, to explain the occurrence. The firm belief was that the

spiritual power of the Black Snake had alone secured his triumph.

I mentioned this story to a highly educated and deeply religious man of

my acquaintance. He was a priest of the Jesuit order, a European by

birth, formerly a professor in a Continental university of high repute,

and beyond doubt a guileless and pious man. His acquaintance with Indian

life extended over more than twenty years of missionary labor in the

wildest parts of the west slope of the Rocky Mountains. To my surprise,

(for I was then a novice in the country,) I found him neither

astonished, nor shocked, nor amused, by what seemed to me so gross a

superstition.

"I have seen," said he, "many exhibitions of power which my philosophy

cannot explain. I have known predictions of events far in the future to

be literally fulfilled, and have seen medicine tested in the most

conclusive ways. I once saw a Kootenai Indian (known generally as

Skookum-tamahe-rewos, from his extraordinary power) command a mountain

sheep to fall dead, and the animal, then leaping among the rocks of the

mountain-side, fell instantly lifeless. This I saw with my own eyes, and

I ate of the animal afterwards. It was unwounded, healthy, and perfectly

wild. Ah!" continued he, crossing himself and looking upwards, "Mary

protect us! the medicine-men have power from Sathanas."[F]

This statement, made by so responsible a person, attracted my attention

to what before seemed but a clumsy species of juggling. During many

months of intimate knowledge of Indian life,--as an adopted member of a

tribe, as a resident in their camps, and their companion on hunts and

war-parties,--I lost no opportunity of gathering information concerning

their religious belief and traditions, and the system of _medicine_, as

it prevails in its purity. It would be foreign to the design of this

desultory paper to enter at large upon the history of creation as

preserved by the Indians in their traditions, the conflicts of the

Beneficent Spirit with the Adversary, and the Indian idea of a future

state. With all these, the present sketch has no further concern than a

mere statement that "medicine" is based upon the idea of an overruling

and all-powerful Providence, who acts at His good pleasure, through

human instruments. Those among Christians who entertain the doctrine of

Special Providences may find in the untutored Indian a faith as firm as

theirs,--not sharply defined, or understood by the Indian himself, but

inborn and ineradicable.

The Indian, being thoroughly ignorant of all things not connected with

war or the chase, is necessarily superstitious. His imagination is

active,--generally more so than are his reasoning powers,--and fits him

for a ready belief in the powers of any able mediciner. On one occasion,

Meldram, a white man in the employ of the American Fur Company, found

himself suddenly elevated to high rank as a seer by a foolish or

petulant remark. He was engaged in making a rude press for baling furs,

and had got a heavy lever in position. A large party of Crow Indians who

were near at hand, considering his press a marvel of mechanical

ingenuity, were very inquisitive as to its uses. Meldram, with an

assumption of severity, told them the machine was "snow medicine," and

that it would make snow to fall until it reached the end of a cord that

dangled from the lever and reached within a yard of the ground. The fame

of so potent a medicine spread rapidly through the Crow nation. The

machine was visited by hundreds, and the fall of snow anxiously looked

for by the entire tribe. To the awe of every Indian, and the

astonishment of the few trappers then at the mouth of the Yellowstone,

the snow actually reached the end of the rope, and did not during the

winter attain any greater depth. Meldram found greatness thrust upon

him. He has lived for more than forty years among the Crows, and when I

knew him was much consulted as a medicine-man. His chief charms, or

amulets, were a large bull's-eye silver watch, and a copy of "Ayer's

Family Almanac," in which was displayed the human body encircled by the

signs of the zodiac.

The position and ease attendant upon a reputation for medicine power

cause many unsuccessful pretenders to embrace the profession; and it

would seem strange that their failures should not have brought medicine

into disrepute. In looking closely into this, a well-marked distinction

will always be found between _medicine_ and the _medicine-man_,--quite

as broad as is made with us between religion and the preacher. I have

seen would-be medicine-men laughed at through the camp,--men of

reputation as warriors, and respected in council, but whose _forte_ was

not the reading of dreams or the prediction of events. On the other

hand, I have seen persons of inferior intellect, without courage on the

war-path or wisdom in the council, revered as the channels through

which, in some unexplained manner, the Great Spirit warned or advised

his creatures.

Of course it is no purpose of this paper to uphold or attack these

peculiar ideas. A meagre presentation of a few facts not generally known

is all that is aimed at. Whether the system of Indian medicine be a

variety of Mesmerism, Magnetism, Spiritualism, or what not, others may

inquire and determine. One bred a Calvinist, as was the writer, may be

supposed to have viewed with suspicion the exhibitions of medicine power

that almost daily presented themselves. And while, in very numerous

instances, they proved to be but the impudent pretensions of charlatans,

it must be conceded, if credible witnesses are to be believed, that

sometimes there is a power of second-sight, or something of a kindred

nature, which defies investigation. Instances of this kind are of

frequent occurrence, and easily recalled, I venture to say, by every one

familiar with the Indian in his native state. The higher powers claimed

for medicine are, in general, doubtfully spoken of by the Indians. Not

that they deny the possibility of the power, but they question the

probability of so signal a mark of favor being bestowed on a mere

mortal. Powers and medicine privileges of a lower degree are more

readily acknowledged. An aged Indian of the Assinaboin tribe is very

generally admitted, by his own and neighboring tribes, to have been

shown the happy hunting-grounds, and conducted through them and returned

safely to the camp of his tribe, by special favor of the Great Spirit.

He once drew a map of the Indian paradise for me, and described its

pleasant prairies and crystal rivers, its countless herds of fat buffalo

and horses, its perennial and luxuriant grass, and other charms dear to

an Indian's heart, in a rhapsody that was almost poetry. Another, an

obscure man of the Cathead Sioux, is believed to have seen the hole

through which issue the herds of buffalo which the Great Spirit calls

forth from the centre of the earth to feed his children.

Medicine of this degree is not unfavorably regarded by the masses; but

instances of the highest grades are extremely rare, and the claimants of

such powers few in number. The Black Snake and the Kootenai, before

referred to, are, if still alive, the only instances with which I am

acquainted of admitted and well-authenticated powers so great and

incredible. The common use of medicine is in affairs of war and the

chase. Here the medicine-man will be found, in many cases, to exhibit a

prescience truly astounding. Without attempting a theory to account for

this, a suggestion may be ventured. The Indian passes a life that knows

no repose. His vigilance is ever on the alert. No hour of day or night

is to him an hour of assured safety. In the course of years, his

perceptions and apprehensions become so acute, in the presence of

constant danger, as to render him keenly and delicately sensitive to

impressions that a civilized man could scarce recognize. The Indian, in

other words, has a development almost like the instinct of the fox or

beaver. Upon this delicate barometer, whose basis is physical fear,

impressions (moral or physical, who shall say?) act with surprising

power. How this occurs, no Indian will attempt to explain. Certain

conjurations will, they maintain, aid the medicine-man to receive

impressions; but how or wherefore, no one pretends to know. This view of

_minor medicine_ is the one which will account for many of its

manifestations. Whether sound or defective, we will not contend.

The medicine-man whom I knew best was Ma-que-a-pos (the Wolf's Word), an

ignorant and unintellectual person. I knew him perfectly well. His

nature was simple, innocent, and harmless, devoid of cunning, and

wanting in those fierce traits that make up the Indian character. His

predictions were sometimes absolutely astounding. He has, beyond

question, accurately described the persons, horses, arms, and

destination of a party three hundred miles distant, not one of whom he

had ever seen, and of whose very existence neither he, nor any one in

his camp, was before apprised.

On one occasion, a party of ten voyageurs set out from Fort Benton, the

remotest post of the American Fur Company, for the purpose of finding

the Kaime, or Blood Band of the Northern Blackfeet. Their route lay

almost due north, crossing the British line near the Chief Mountain

(Nee-na-sta-ko) and the great Lake O-max-een (two of the grandest

features of Rocky Mountain scenery, but scarce ever seen by whites), and

extending indefinitely beyond the Saskatchewan and towards the

tributaries of the Coppermine and Mackenzie Rivers. The expedition was

perilous from its commencement, and the danger increased with each day's

journey. The war-paths, war-party fires, and similar indications of the

vicinity of hostile bands, were each day found in greater abundance.

It should be borne in mind that an experienced trapper can, at a glance,

pronounce what tribe made a war-trail or a camp-fire. Indications which

would convey no meaning to the inexperienced are conclusive proofs to

the keen-eyed mountaineer. The track of a foot, by a greater or less

turning out of the toes, demonstrates from which side of the mountains a

party has come. The print of a moccasin in soft earth indicates the

tribe of the wearer. An arrow-head or a feather from a war-bonnet, a

scrap of dressed deer-skin, or even a chance fragment of jerked

buffalo-meat, furnishes data from which unerring conclusions are deduced

with marvellous facility.

The party of adventurers soon found that they were in the thickest of

the Cree war-party operations, and so full of danger was every day's

travel that a council was called, and seven of the ten turned back. The

remaining three, more through foolhardiness than for any good reason,

continued their journey, until their resolution failed them, and they

too determined that, after another day's travel northward, they would

hasten back to their comrades.

On the afternoon of the last day, four young Indians were seen, who,

after a cautious approach, made the sign of peace, laid down their arms,

and came forward, announcing themselves to be Blackfeet of the Blood

Band. They were sent out, they said, by Ma-que-a-pos, to find three

whites mounted on horses of a peculiar color, dressed in garments

accurately described to them, and armed with weapons which they, without

seeing them, minutely described. The whole history of the expedition had

been detailed to them by Ma-que-a-pos. The purpose of the journey, the

_personnel_ of the party, the exact locality at which to find the three

who persevered, had been detailed by him with as much fidelity as could

have been done by one of the whites themselves. And so convinced were

the Indians of the truth of the old man's medicine, that the four young

men were sent to appoint a rendezvous, for four days later, at a spot a

hundred miles distant. On arriving there, accompanied by the young

Indians, the whites found the entire camp of "Rising Head," a noted

war-chief, awaiting them. The objects of the expedition were speedily

accomplished; and the whites, after a few days' rest, returned to safer

haunts. The writer of this paper was at the head of the party of whites,

and himself met the Indian messengers.

Upon questioning the chief men of the Indian camp, many of whom

afterwards became my warm personal friends, and one of them my adopted

brother, no suspicion of the facts, as narrated, could be sustained.

Ma-que-a-pos could give no explanation beyond the general one,--that he

"saw us coming, and heard us talk on our journey." He had not, during

that time, been absent from the Indian camp.

A subsequent intimate acquaintance with Ma-que-a-pos disclosed a

remarkable medicine faculty as accurate as it was inexplicable. He was

tested in every way, and almost always stood the ordeal successfully.

Yet he never claimed that the gift entitled him to any peculiar regard,

except as the instrument of a power whose operations he did not pretend

to understand. He had an imperfect knowledge of the Catholic worship,

distorted and intermixed with the wild theogony of the red man. He would

talk with passionate devotion of the Mother of God, and in the same

breath tell how the Great Spirit restrains the Rain Spirits from

drowning the world, by tying them with the rainbow. I have often seen

him make the sign of the cross, while he recounted, in all the soberness

of implicit belief, how the Old Man (the God of the Blackfeet) formed

the human race from the mud of the Missouri,--how he experimented before

he adopted the human frame, as we now have it,--how he placed his

creatures in an isolated park far to the north, and there taught them

the rude arts of Indian life,--how he staked the Indians on a desperate

game of chance with the Spirit of Evil,--and how the whites are now his

peculiar care. Ma-que-a-pos's faith could hardly stand the test of any

religious creed. Yet it must be said for him, that his simplicity and

innocence of life might be a model for many, better instructed than he.

The wilder tribes are accustomed to certain observances which are

generally termed the tribe-medicine. Their leading men inculcate them

with great care,--perhaps to perpetuate unity of tradition and purpose.

In the arrangement of tribe-medicine, trivial observances are frequently

intermixed with very serious doctrines. Thus, the grand war-council of

the Dakotah confederacy, comprising thirteen tribes of Sioux, and more

than seventeen thousand warriors, many years since promulgated a

national medicine, prescribing a red stone pipe with an ashen stem for

all council purposes, and (herein was the true point) an eternal

hostility to the whites. The prediction may be safely ventured, that

every Sioux will preserve this medicine until the nation shall cease to

exist. To it may be traced the recent Indian war that devastated

Minnesota; and there cannot, in the nature of things, and of the

American Indian especially, be a peace kept in good faith until the

confederacy of the Dakotah is in effect destroyed.

The Crows, or Upsaraukas, will not smoke in council, unless the pipe is

lighted with a coal of buffalo chip, and the bowl rested on a fragment

of the same substance. Their chief men have for a great while endeavored

to engraft teetotalism upon their national medicine, and have succeeded

better than the Indian character would have seemed to promise.

Among the Flat-Heads female chastity is a national medicine. With the

Mandans, friendship for the whites is supposed to be the source of

national and individual advantage.

Besides the varieties of medicine already alluded to, there are in use

charms of almost every kind. When game is scarce, medicine is made to

call back the buffalo. The Man in the Sun is invoked for fair weather,

for success in war or chase, and for a cure of wounds. The spirits of

the dead are appeased by medicine songs and offerings. The curiosity of

some may be attracted by the following rude and literal translation of

the song of a Blackfoot woman to the spirit of her son, who was killed

on his first war-party. The words were written down at the time, and are

not in any respect changed or smoothed.

"O my son, farewell!

You have gone beyond the great river,

Your spirit is on the other side of the Sand Buttes;

I will not see you for a hundred winters;

You will scalp the enemy in the green prairie,

Beyond the great river.

When the warriors of the Blackfeet meet,

When they smoke the medicine-pipe and dance the war-dance,

They will ask, 'Where is Isthumaka?--

Where is the bravest of the Mannikappi?'

He fell on the war-path.

Mai-ram-bo, mai-ram-bo.

"Many scalps will be taken for your death;

The Crows will lose many horses;

Their women will weep for their braves,

They will curse the spirit of Isthumaka.

O my son! I will come to you

And make moccasins for the war-path,

As I did when you struck the lodge

Of the 'Horse-Guard' with the tomahawk.

Farewell, my son! I will see you

Beyond the broad river.

Mai-ram-bo, mai-ram-bo," etc., etc.

Sung in a plaintive minor key, and in a wild, irregular rhythm, the

dirge was far more impressive than the words would indicate.

It cannot be denied that the whites, who consort much with the ruder

tribes of Indians imbibe, to a considerable degree, their veneration for

medicine. The old trappers and voyageurs are, almost without exception,

observers of omens and dreamers of dreams. They claim that medicine is a

faculty which can in some degree be cultivated, and aspire to its

possession as eagerly as does the Indian. Sometimes they acquire a

reputation that is in many ways beneficial to them.

As before said, it is no object of this paper to defend or combat the

Indian notion of medicine. Such a system exists as a fact; and whoever

writes upon American Demonology will find many fruitful topics of

investigation in the daily life of the uncontaminated Indian. There may

be nothing of truth in the supposed prediction by Tecumseh, that

Tuckabatchee would be destroyed by an earthquake on a day which he

named; the gifts of the "Prophet" may be overstated in the traditions

that yet linger in Kentucky and Indiana; the descent of the Mandans from

Prince Madoc and his adventurous Welchmen, and the consideration

accorded them on that account, may very possibly be altogether fanciful;

but whoever will take the trouble to investigate will find in the _real_

Indian a faith, and occasionally a power, that quite equal the faculties

claimed by our civilized clairvoyants, and will approach an untrodden

path of curious, if not altogether useful research.

FOOTNOTES:

[E] The Mountain Assinaboins, of which tribe the Black Snake is (if

living) a distinguished ornament, were visited more than a hundred years

since by an English clergyman named Wolsey, who devised an alphabet for

their use. The alphabet is still used by them, and they keep their

memoranda on dressed skins. With the exception of the Cherokees, they

are, perhaps, the only tribe possessing a written language. They have no

other civilization.

[F] I do not feel at liberty to give the name of this excellent man, now

perhaps no more. In 1861, he lived and labored, with a gentleness and

zeal worthy of the cause he heralded, as a missionary among the

Kalispelm Indians, on the west slope of the Rocky Mountains. Such

devotion to missionary labor as was his may well challenge admiration

even from those who think him in fatal error. His memory will long be

cherished by those who knew the purity of his character, his generous

catholicity of spirit, and the native and acquired graces of mind which

made him a companion at once charming and instructive.

THE DEATH OF SLAVERY.

O thou great Wrong, that, through the slow-paced years,

Didst hold thy millions fettered, and didst wield

The scourge that drove the laborer to the field,

And look with stony eye on human tears,

Thy cruel reign is o'er;

Thy bondmen crouch no more

In terror at the menace of thine eye;

For He who marks the bounds of guilty power,

Long-suffering, hath heard the captive's cry,

And touched his shackles at the appointed hour,

And lo! they fall, and he whose limbs they galled

Stands in his native manhood, disenthralled.

A shout of joy from the redeemed is sent;

Ten thousand hamlets swell the hymn of thanks;

Our rivers roll exulting, and their banks

Send up hosannas to the firmament.

Fields, where the bondman's toil

No more shall trench the soil,

Seem now to bask in a serener day;

The meadow-birds sing sweeter, and the airs

Of heaven with more caressing softness play,

Welcoming man to liberty like theirs.

A glory clothes the land from sea to sea,

For the great land and all its coasts are free.

Within that land wert thou enthroned of late,

And they by whom the nation's laws were made,

And they who filled its judgment-seats, obeyed

Thy mandate, rigid as the will of fate.

Fierce men at thy right hand,

With gesture of command,

Gave forth the word that none might dare gainsay;

And grave and reverend ones, who loved thee not,

Shrank from thy presence, and, in blank dismay,

Choked down, unuttered, the rebellious thought;

While meaner cowards, mingling with thy train,

Proved, from the book of God, thy right to reign.

Great as thou wert, and feared from shore to shore,

The wrath of God o'ertook thee in thy pride;

Thou sitt'st a ghastly shadow; by thy side

Thy once strong arms hang nerveless evermore.

And they who quailed but now

Before thy lowering brow

Devote thy memory to scorn and shame,

And scoff at the pale, powerless thing thou art.

And they who ruled in thine imperial name,

Subdued, and standing sullenly apart,

Scowl at the hands that overthrew thy reign,

And shattered at a blow the prisoner's chain.

Well was thy doom deserved; thou didst not spare

Life's tenderest ties, but cruelly didst part

Husband and wife, and from the mother's heart

Didst wrest her children, deaf to shriek and prayer;

Thy inner lair became

The haunt of guilty shame;

Thy lash dropped blood; the murderer, at thy side,

Showed his red hands, nor feared the vengeance due.

Thou didst sow earth with crimes, and, far and wide,

A harvest of uncounted miseries grew,

Until the measure of thy sins at last

Was full, and then the avenging bolt was cast.

Go then, accursed of God, and take thy place

With baleful memories of the elder time,

With many a wasting pest, and nameless crime,

And bloody war that thinned the human race;

With the Black Death, whose way

Through wailing cities lay,

Worship of Moloch, tyrannies that built

The Pyramids, and cruel creeds that taught

To avenge a fancied guilt by deeper guilt,--

Death at the stake to those that held them not.

Lo, the foul phantoms, silent in the gloom

Of the flown ages, part to yield thee room.

I see the better years that hasten by

Carry thee back into that shadowy past,

Where, in the dusty spaces, void and vast,

The graves of those whom thou hast murdered lie.

The slave-pen, through whose door

Thy victims pass no more,

Is there, and there shall the grim block remain

At which the slave was sold; while at thy feet

Scourges and engines of restraint and pain

Moulder and rust by thine eternal seat.

There, 'mid the symbols that proclaim thy crimes,

Dwell thou, a warning to the coming times.

REVIEWS AND LITERARY NOTICES.

_Ecce Homo: a Survey of the Life and Work of Jesus Christ._ Boston:

Roberts Brothers.

The merits of this book are popular and obvious, consisting in a strain

of liberal, enlightened sentiment, an ingenious and original cast of

thought, and a painstaking lucidity of style which leaves the writer's

meaning even prosaically plain. There is a good deal of absurd and even

puerile exegesis in its pages, which makes you wonder how so much

sentimentality can co-exist with so much ability; but the book is

vitiated for all purposes beyond mere literary entertainment by one

grand defect, which is the guarded theologic obscurity the writer keeps

up, or the attempt he makes to estimate Christianity apart from all

question of the truth or falsity of Christ's personal pretensions

towards God. The author may have reached in his own mind the most

definite theologic convictions, but he sedulously withholds them from

his reader; and the consequence is, that the book awakens and satisfies

no intellectual interest in the latter, but remains at best a curious

literary speculation. For what men have always been moved by in

Christianity is not so much the superiority of its moral inculcations to

those of other faiths, as its uncompromising pretension to be a final or

absolute religion. If Christ be only the eminently good and wise and

philanthropic man the author describes him to be, deliberating,

legislating, for the improvement of man's morals, he may be very

admirable, but nothing can be inferred from that circumstance to the

deeper inquiry. If he claim no essentially different significance to our

regard, on God's part, than that claimed by Zoroaster, Confucius,

Mahomet, Hildebrand, Luther, Wesley, he is to be sure still entitled to

all the respect inherent in such an office; but then there is no _a

priori_ reason why his teaching and influence should not be superseded

in process of time by that of any at present unmentionable Anne Lee,

Joanna Southcote, or Joe Smith. And what the human mind craves, above

all things else, is repose towards God,--is not to remain a helpless

sport to every fanatic sot that comes up from the abyss of human vanity,

and claims to hold it captive by the assumption of a new Divine mission.

The objection to the _mythic_ view of Christ's significance, which is

that maintained by Strauss, is, that it violates men's faith in the

integrity of history as a veracious outcome of the providential love and

wisdom which are extant and operative in human affairs. And the

objection to what has been called the _Troubadour_ view of the same

subject, which is that represented by M. Renan, is, that it outrages

men's faith in human character, regarded, if not as habitually, still as

occasionally capable of heroic or consistent veracity. We may safely

argue, then, that neither Strauss nor Renan will possess any long

vitality to human thought. They are both fascinating reading;--the one

for his profound sincerity, or his conviction of a worth in Christianity

so broadly human and impersonal as to exempt it from the obligations of

a literal historic doctrine; the other for his profound insincerity, so

to speak, or an egotism so subtile, so capacious and frank, as permits

him to take up the grandest character in history into the hollow of his

hand, and turn him about there for critical inspection and definite

adjustment to the race, with absolutely no more reverence nor reticence

than a buyer of grain shows to a handful of wheat, as he pours it

dexterously from hand to hand, and blows the chaff in the seller's

face.[G] But both writers alike are left behind us in the library, and

are not subsequently brought to mind by anything we encounter in the

fields or the streets.

The author of _Ecce Homo_ does no dishonor to the Christian history as

history, however foolishly he expatiates at times upon its incidents and

implications; much less to the simple and perfect integrity of Christ as

a man, but no more than Strauss or Renan does he meet the supreme want

of the popular understanding, which is to know wherein Christianity has

the right it claims to be regarded as a final or complete revelation of

the Divine name upon the earth. We think, moreover, that the reason of

the omission is the same in every case, being the sheer and contented

indifference which each of the writers feels to the question of a

revelation in the abstract or general, regarded as a _sine qua non_ of

any sympathetic or rational intercourse which may be considered as

possible between God and man. We should not be so presumptuous as to

invite our readers' attention to the discussion of so grave a

philosophic topic as the one here referred to, in the limited space at

our command; but surely it may be said, without any danger of

misunderstanding from the most cursory reader, that if creation were the

absolute or unconditioned verity which thoughtless people deem it, there

could be no _ratio_ between Creator and creature, hence no intercourse

or intimacy, inasmuch as the one is being itself, and the other does not

even exist or _seem_ to be but by him. In order that creation should be

a rational product of Divine power, in order that the creature should be

a being of reason, endowed with the responsibility of his own actions,

it is imperative that the Creator disown his essential infinitude and

diminish himself to the creature's dimensions; that he hide or obscure

his own perfection in the creature's imperfection, to the extent even of

rendering it fairly problematic whether or not an infinite being really

exist, so putting man, as it were, upon the spontaneous search and

demand for such a being, and in that measure developing his rational

possibilities. And if this be so,--if creation philosophically involve a

descending movement on the Creator's part proportionate to the ascending

one contemplated on the creature's part,--then it follows that creation

is not a simple, but a complex process, involving equally a Divine

action and a human reaction, or the due adjustment of means and ends;

and that no writer, consequently, can long satisfy the intellect in the

sphere of religious thought, who either jauntily or ignorantly overlooks

this philosophic necessity. This, however, is what Messrs. Strauss and

Renan and the author of _Ecce Homo_ agree to do; and this is what makes

their several books, whatever subjective differences characterize them

to a literary regard, alike objectively unprofitable as instruments of

intellectual progress.

_The Masquerade and Other Poems._ By JOHN GODFREY SAXE. Boston: Ticknor

and Fields.

It was remarked lately by an ingenious writer, that "it never seems to

occur to some people, who deliver upon the books they read very

unhesitating judgments, that they may be wanting, either by congenital

defect, or defect of experience, or defect of reproductive memory, in

the qualifications which are necessary for judging fairly of any

particular book." To poetry this remark applies with especial force.

By poetry we do not understand mere verse, but any form of literary

composition which reproduces in the mind certain emotions which, in the

absence of an epithet less vague, we shall call _poetical_. These

emotions may be a compound of the sensuous and the purely intellectual,

or they may partake much more of the one than of the other. (The

rigorous metaphysician will please not begin to carp at our definition.)

These emotions may be excited by an odor, the state of the atmosphere, a

strain of music, a form of words, or by a single word; and, as they

result largely from association, it is obvious that what may be poetry

to some minds may not be poetry to others,--may not be poetry to the

same mind at different periods of life or in different moods. The most

sympathetic, most catholic, most receptive mind will always be the best

qualified to detect and appreciate poetry under all its various forms,

and would as soon think of denying the devotional faculty to a man of

differing creed, as of denying the poetical to one whose theory or habit

of expression may chance to differ from its own. Goethe was so apt to

discover something good in poems which others dismissed as wholly

worthless, that it was said of him, "his commendation is a brevet of

mediocrity." Perhaps it was his "many-sidedness" that made him so

accurate a "detective" in criticism.

According to Wordsworth, "poetry is the spontaneous overflow of powerful

feelings; it takes its origin from emotion recollected in tranquillity."

A good definition so far as it goes. But Wordsworth could see only one

side of the shield. He was notoriously so deficient in the faculty of

humor, that even Sydney Smith was unintelligible to him. Few specimens

of what can be called wit can be found in his writings. He could not see

that there is a poetry of wit as well as of sentiment,--of the intellect

as well as of the emotions. No wonder he could not enjoy Pope, and had

little relish for Horace. And yet how grand is Wordsworth in his own

peculiar sphere!

Those narrow views of the province of poetry, which roused the

indignation of Byron, and which would exclude such writers as

Goldsmith, Pope, Campbell, Scott, Praed, Moore, and Saxe from the rank

of poets, are not unfrequently reproduced in our own day. We do not

perceive that they spring from a liberal or philosophical consideration

of the subject. Poetry, [Greek: poiesis], or "making," creation, or

re-creation, does not address itself to any single group of those

faculties of our complex nature, the gratification of which brings a

sense of the agreeable, the exhilarating, or the elevating. As well

might we deny to didactic verse the name of poetry, as to those _vers de

societe_ in which a profound truth may be found in a comic mask, or the

foibles which scolding could not reach may be reflected in the mirror

held up in gayety of heart. As well might we deny that a waltz is music,

and claim the name of music only for a funeral march or a nocturne, as

deny that Shakespeare's description of Queen Mab is as much poetry as

the stately words in which Prospero compares the vanishing of his

insubstantial pageant to that of

"The cloud-capped towers, the gorgeous palaces,

The solemn temples, the great globe itself."

The new volume of poems by Mr. Saxe is, in many respects, an improvement

on all that he has given us hitherto. There is more versatility in the

style, a freer and firmer touch in the handling. Like our best

humorists, he shows that the founts of tears and of laughter lie close

together; for his power of pathos is almost as marked as that of fun. As

good specimens of what he has accomplished in the minor key, we may

instance "The Expected Ship," "The Story of Life," and "Pan Immortal."

But it is in his faculty of turning upon us the whimsical and humorous

side of a fact or a character that Saxe especially excels. The lines

entitled "The Superfluous Man" are an illustration of what we mean. In

some learned treatise the author stumbles on the following somewhat

startling reflection: "It is ascertained by inspection of the registers

of many countries, that the uniform proportion of male to female births

is as 21 to 20: accordingly, in respect to marriage, every 21st man is

naturally superfluous." Here is hint enough to set Saxe's bright vein of

humor flowing. The Superfluous Man becomes a concrete embodiment, and

sings his discovery of the cause of his forlorn single lot and his

hopeless predicament. It flashes upon him that he is that 21st man

alluded to by the profound statistician. He is under a natural ban,--for

he's a superfluous man. There's no use fighting 'gainst nature's

inflexible plan. There's never a woman for him,--for he's a superfluous

man. The whole conception and execution of the poem afford a fine

example of the manner in which a genuine artist may inform a subtile and

an extravagant whim with life, humor, and consistency.

"The Mourner a la Mode" contains some good instances of the neatness and

felicity with which the author floods a whole stanza with humor by a

single epithet.

"What tears of _vicarious_ woe.

That else might have sullied her face,

Were kindly permitted to flow

In ripples of ebony lace

While even her fan, in its play,

Had quite a lugubrious scope,

And seemed to be waving away

The ghost of the angel of Hope!"

The sentiments of a young lover on finding that the object of his

adoration had an excellent appetite, and was always punctual at lunch

and dinner, are expressed with a Sheridan-like sparkle in the concluding

stanza of "The Beauty of Ballston."

"Ah me! of so much loveliness

It had been sweet to be the winner;

I know she loved me only less--

The merest fraction--than her dinner;

'T was hard to lose so fair a prize,

But then (I thought) 't were vastly harder

To have before my jealous eyes

_A constant rival in my larder!_"

There is one practical consideration in regard to the poetry of Saxe,

which may excite the distrust of those critics who, with Horace, hate

the profane multitude. Fortunately or unfortunately for his reputation,

Saxe's poems are _popular_, and--not to put too fine a point of

it--_sell_. His books have a regular market value, and this value

increases rather than diminishes with years. This is, we confess, rather

a suspicious circumstance. Did Milton sell? Did Wordsworth sell? Must

not the fame that is instantaneous prove hollow and ephemeral? Are we

not acquainted with a certain volume of poems that shall be nameless,

the whole edition of which lies untouched and unclaimed on the

publisher's shelves? And are we not perfectly well aware that those

poems--well, we can wait. If Mr. Saxe would only put forth a volume that

should prove, in a mercantile sense, a failure, we think he would be

surprised to find how happily he would hit certain critics who can now

see little in his writings to justify their success. Let him once join

the fraternity of unappreciated geniuses, and he will find

compensation,--though not, perhaps, in the form of what some vulgar

fellow has called "solid pudding."

_The Giant Cities of Bashan; and Syria's Holy Places._ By the Rev. J. L.

PORTER, A. M., Author of "Murray's Hand-Book for Syria and Palestine,"

etc., etc. New York: T. Nelson and Sons.

Travellers who have merely visited the classic scenes of Greece and

Italy, or at the best have "browsed about" the ruinous sites of Tyre and

Carthage, must have a mortifying sense of the newness of such recent

settlements, in reading of Mr. Porter's journey through Bashan, and

sojourn in Bozrah, Salcah, Edrei, and the other cities of the Rephaim.

As Chicago is to Athens, so is Athens to these mighty and wonderful

cities of doom and eld, which are marvellous, not alone for their

antiquity, (so remote that one looks into it dizzily and doubtfully, as

a depth into which it is not wholly safe to peer,) but also for the

perfection in which they stand and have stood amid the desolation of

unnumbered ages. A Cockney clergyman travelling through Eastern Syria,

with his Ezekiel in his hand, arrives at nightfall before the gates of a

town which was a flourishing metropolis in the days of Moses, and takes

up his lodging in a house built by some newly-married giant, say five or

six thousand years ago. It is in perfect repair, "the walls are sound,

the roofs unbroken, the doors and even window-shutters"--being of solid

basalt monoliths, incapable of decay or destruction--"are in their

places." In the town whose dumb streets no foot but the Bedouin's has

trodden for centuries and centuries, there are hundreds of such houses

as this; and in a province not larger than Rhode Island there are a

hundred such towns. According to Mr. Porter, the language of Scripture,

which the strongest powers of deglutition have sometimes rejected as

that of Eastern hyperbole, is literally verified at every step in the

land of Bashan. The facts, he says, would not stand the arithmetic of

Bishop Colenso for an instant; yet from the summit of the castle of

Salcah (capital of his late gigantic Majesty, King Og) he counted thirty

utterly deserted and perfectly habitable towns; so that he finds no

difficulty in believing the bulletin of Jair in which the Israelite

general declares he took in the province of Argob sixty great cities

"fenced with high walls, gates, and bars, besides unwalled towns a great

many." Nor is the fulfilment of prophecy in regard to this kingdom,

populous and prosperous beyond any other known to history, less literal

or less startling.

"Thus saith the Lord God of Israel: They shall eat their bread with

carefulness, and drink their water with astonishment, that her land may

be desolate from all that is therein, because of the violence of all

that dwell therein. And the cities that are inhabited shall be laid

waste, and the land shall be desolate."

Everywhere Mr. Porter witnessed the end predicted by Ezekiel: a nation

might dwell in these enchanted cities, but they are all empty and silent

as the desert. Their architecture, however, is eloquent in witness of

the successive changes through which they have passed in reaching the

state of final desolation foretold of the prophet. The dwellings, so

ponderous and so simple, are the work of the original Rephaim, or

giants, from whom the Israelites conquered the land, and the masonry is

of these first conquerors. The Greeks have left the proof of their

presence in the temples and inscriptions, and the Romans in the

structure of the roads; while the Saracens have added mosques, and the

Turks solitude and danger,--for the whole land is infested with robbers.

But while Jewish masonry has crumbled to dust, while Roman roads are

weed-grown, and the temples of the gods and the mosques of Mahomet

mingle their ruins, the dwellings of the Rephaim stand intact and

everlasting, as if the earth had loved her mighty first-born too well to

suffer the memory of their greatness to perish from her face.

It must be acknowledged that Mr. Porter has not done the best that could

be done for the country through which he travels. With a style extremely

graphic at times, he seems wanting in those arts of composition by which

he could convey to his readers an impression of things at once vivid and

comprehensive. He visits the cities of Bashan, one after another, and

tells us repeatedly that they are desolate, and in perfect repair, and

quotes the proper text of Scripture in which their desolation is

foretold, and their number and strength not exaggerated. Yet he fails,

with all this, to describe any one place completely, and is of opinion

that he should weary his reader in recounting, at Bozrah, for example,

"the wonders of art and architecture, and the curiosities of votive

tablet, and dedicatory inscription on altar, tomb, church, and temple";

whereas we must confess that nothing would have pleased us better than

to hear about all these things, with ever so much minuteness, and that

we should have been willing to take two passages of prophecy instead of

twenty, if we might have had the omitted description in the place of

them. But Mr. Porter being made as he is, we are glad to get out of him

what we can, and have to thank him for a full account of at least one of

the houses of the Rephaim, in which he passed a night.

"The walls were perfect, nearly five feet thick, built of large blocks

of hewn stones, without lime or cement of any kind. The roof was formed

of large slabs of the same black basalt, lying as regularly, and jointed

as closely as if the workmen had only just completed them. They measured

twelve feet in length, eighteen inches in breadth, and six inches in

thickness. The ends rested on a plain stone cornice, projecting about a

foot from each side wall. The chamber was twenty feet long, twelve wide,

and ten high. The outer door was a slab of stone, four and a half feet

high, four wide, and eight inches thick. It hung upon pivots formed of

projecting parts of the slab, working in sockets in the lintel and

threshold; and though so massive, I was able to open and shut it with

ease. At one end of the room was a small window with a stone shutter. An

inner door, also of stone, but of finer workmanship, and not quite so

heavy as the other, admitted to a chamber of the same size and

appearance. From it a much larger door communicated with a third

chamber, to which there was a descent by a flight of stone steps. This

was a spacious hall, equal in width to the two rooms, and about

twenty-five feet long by twenty high. A semicircular arch was thrown

across it, supporting the stone roof; and a gate, so large that camels

could pass in and out, opened on the street. The gate was of stone, and

in its place; but some rubbish had accumulated on the threshold, and it

appeared to have been open for ages. Here our horses were comfortably

installed. Such were the internal arrangements of this strange old

mansion. It had only one story; and its simple, massive style of

architecture gave evidence of a very remote antiquity."

Mr. Porter does not tell us whether all the dwellings of the Rephaim are

constructed after one plan, as, for instance, the houses of Pompeii

were, or whether there was variety in the architecture, and on many

other points of inquiry he is equally unsatisfactory. His strength is in

his one great fact,--that these cities are older than any known to

profane history, and that they yet exist undecayed and undecaying. The

charm of such a fact is so great, that we recur again and again to his

pages, with a forever unappeased famine for more knowledge, which we

hope some garrulous and gossipful traveller will soon arise to satisfy.

Of him--the beneficent future tourist--we shall willingly accept any

number of fables, if only he will add something more filling than Mr.

Porter has given us. It is true that this tourist will not have a mere

pleasure excursion, but will undergo much to merit the gratitude of his

readers. The land of Bashan is nomadically inhabited by a race of men

much fiercer than its ancient bulls; and Bedouins beset the movements of

the traveller, to pillage and slay wherever they are strong enough to

overcome his escort of Druses. Mr. Porter tells much of the perils he

incurred, and even of actual attacks made upon him by fanatical

Mussulmans while he sketched the wonders of the world's youth among

which they dwelt. For the present his book has a value unique and very

great: the scenes through which he passes have been heretofore unvisited

by travel, and the interest attaching to them is intense and universal.

The literal verification of many passages of Scripture supposed more or

less allegorical, must have its weight with all liberal thinkers; and,

as a contribution to the means of religious inquiry, this work will be

earnestly received.

_Life of Benjamin Silliman, M. D., LL. D., late Professor of Chemistry,

Mineralogy, and Geology in Yale College._ Chiefly from his Manuscript

Reminiscences, Diaries, and Correspondence. By GEORGE P. FISHER,

Professor in Yale College. In Two Volumes. New York: Charles Scribner &

Co.

Professor Fisher, in allowing the subject of this biography to tell the

story of his life, restricts himself very self-denyingly to here and

there a line of introduction or comment. We have ample passages from

Professor Silliman's journal, and from an autobiographical memoir

written during his last years, as well as extracts from his letters and

the letters addressed to him. It is an easy and pleasant way of writing

personal history, and it would be an easy and pleasant way of reading

it, if life were as long as art. But we fear that the popular usefulness

of this work--and the biography of the eminent man who did so much to

popularize science should be in the hands of all--must be impaired by

its magnitude; and we are disposed to regret that Professor Fisher did

not think fit to reject that part of the correspondence which

contributes nothing to the movement of the narrative or the development

of character, and condense much of that material which has only a value

reflected from the interest already felt in Professor Silliman. These

are faults in a work from which we have risen with a clear sense of the

beauty and goodness, as well as the greatness, of the eminent scientist.

It is admirable to see how his career, begun in another century and

another phase of civilization, ended in what was best and most

enlightened and liberal in our own time. A man could hardly have started

from better things, or been subject at important points of his progress

to better influences. Benjamin Silliman was of Revolutionary stock,

which had its roots in the soil of the Reformation. The Connecticut

Puritan came of Tuscan Puritans, who fled their city of Lucca, and

finally passed from Switzerland through Holland to our shores. Brain and

heart in him were thus imbued with an unfaltering love of freedom,

chastised by religious fervor; and when he became a man, he married with

a race of kindred origin in faith, sentiment, and principles. He

advanced with his times in a patriotic devotion to democracy and

equality, but he seems to have always kept, together with great

simplicity of character, the impression of early teaching and

associations, and something of old-time stateliness and formality. His

youth, like his age, was very sober, modest, and discreet. The ties

which united him to his family were strong; and he loved his mother, who

long survived his father, with the reverent affection of the past

generation. He inherited certain theological principles from his

parents, and never swerved from them for a moment. Some friendships came

down to him from his father which he always honored; and the institution

of learning with which he maintained a life-long connection was in his

early days the object of a regard mixed with awe, and always of pride

and devotion. He used to think President Styles the greatest of human

beings; and one reads with a kind of dismay, that he was once fined

sixpence for kicking a football into the President's door-yard.

There was in this grave youth the making of many kinds of greatness. He

who became so eminent in science could have been a great jurist, for he

had the tranquillity and perseverance necessary to legal success; he

could have been a great statesman, for his political views were clear

and just and far-reaching; he wrote some of the most popular books of

travels in his day, and he could have shone in literature; while he

appears to have been conscious of the direction in which a sole weakness

lay, and with early wisdom forsook the muse of poetry. He tells us that

it was no instinctive preference which led him to the study and pursuit

of the natural sciences, but the persuasion of Dr. Dwight, who was

President of Yale in Silliman's twenty-third year, and who opened this

career to him by offering him the Professorship of Chemistry, then about

to be established. At that time Silliman was studying law; but, once

convinced that he can be of greater use to himself and others in the way

proposed, he enters it and never looks back; goes to Philadelphia to

hear the learnedest professors of that day; goes to Europe for the

culture unattainable in this country; overcomes poverty in himself and

in Yale; will not be tempted from New Haven by the offer of the

Presidency of the University of South Carolina, but devotes himself to a

generous study of science, to the diffusion of scientific knowledge, and

the promotion of the greatness of the institution to which he belongs.

His devotion is not blind, however: he finds time to write attractive

accounts of his voyages to Europe, to concern himself in religious

affairs, to sympathize and cooperate with whatever is noble and good in

political movements. He lives long enough to enjoy his fame, to see Yale

prosperous and great, and his country about to triumph forever over the

evil of slavery, which he had hated and combated. It was a noble

life,--simple, pure, and illustrious,--and its history is full of

instruction and encouragement.

_Fifteen Days._ An Extract from EDWARD COLVIL'S Journal. Boston: Ticknor

and Fields.

This is a work of fiction, in which the passion of love, so far from

being the prime motive, as in other fictions, does not enter at all. The

author seeks to reach, without other incident, one tragic event, and

endeavors to make up for a want of adventure by the subtile analysis of

character and the study of a civil problem. The novelty and courage of

the attempt will attract the thoughtful reader, and will probably tempt

him so far into the pages of the book, that he will find himself too

deeply interested in its persons to part from them voluntarily. The

national sin with which the author so pitilessly deals has been expiated

by the whole nation, and is now no more; but its effects upon the guilty

and guiltless victims, here alike so leniently treated, remain, and the

question of slavery must always command attention till the question of

reconstruction is settled.

In "Fifteen Days" the political influences of slavery are only very

remotely considered, while the personal and social results of the system

are examined with incisive acuteness united to a warmth of feeling which

at last breaks forth into pathetic lament. Is not the tragedy, of which

we discern the proportions only in looking back, indeed a fateful one? A

young New-Englander, rich, handsome, generous, and thoroughly taught by

books and by ample experience of the Old World and the New to honor men

and freedom, passes a few days in a Slave State, in the midst of that

cruel system which could progress only from bad to worse; to which

reform was death, and which with the instinct of self-preservation

punished all open attempts to ameliorate the relations of oppressor and

oppressed, and permitted no kindness to exist but in the guise of

severity or the tenderness of a good man for his beast; which boasted

itself an aristocracy, and was an oligarchy of plebeian ignorance and

meanness; which either dulled men's brains or chilled their hearts. In

the presence of this system, Harry Dudley lingers long enough to rescue

a slave and to die by the furious hand of the master,--a man in whose

soul the best impulse was the love he bore his victim, and in whom the

evil destiny of the drama triumphs.

From the conversation of Harry and the botanist, his friend, the author

retrospectively develops in its full beauty a character illustrated in

only one phase by the episode which the passages from Edward Colvil's

journal cover, while she sketches with other touches, slight, but

skilful, the people of a whole neighborhood, and the events of years.

Doctor Borrow, the botanist, is made to pass, by insensible changes,

from a learned indifference concerning slavery to eloquent and ardent

argument against it, and thus to present the history of the process by

which even science, the coldest element of our civilization, found

itself at last unconsciously arrayed against a system long abhorrent to

feeling. In the Doctor's talk with Westlake, we have a close and clear

comparison of the origin and result of the civilizations of New England

and the South, the high equality of the North and the mean aristocracy

of the Slave States, and the Doctor's first perfect consciousness of

loving the one and hating the other. The supposititious Mandingo's

observations of the state of Europe at the time of opening the African

slave-trade form a humorous protest against judgment of Africa by

travellers' stories, and suggest more than a doubt whether the first

men-stealers were better than their victims, and whether they conferred

the boon of a higher civilization upon negroes by enslaving them. But

the humor of the book, like its learning, is subordinated to the story,

which is imbued with a sentiment not wanting in warmth because so noble

and lofty. The friendship of Colvil and Dudley is less like the

friendship between two men, than the affectionate tenderness of two

women for each other; and the character of Dudley in its purity and

elevation is sometimes elusive. The personality of Colvil is also rather

shadowy; but the Doctor is human and tangible, and the other persons,

however slightly indicated, are all real, and bear palpable witness, in

their lives, to the influences of that system which, though cruel to the

oppressed, wrought a ruin yet more terrible in the oppressor.

FOOTNOTES:

[G] Of course we have no disposition to deny M. Renan's right to reduce

Christ and every other historic figure to the standard of the most

modern critical art. We merely mean to say that this is all M. Renan

does, and that the all is not much.