He was a man
Whom no one could have passed without remark,
Active and nervous was his gait; his limbs
And his whole figure breathed intelligence.
Time had compressed the freshness of his cheek
Into a narrow circle of deep red,
But had not tamed his eye; that under brows,
Shaggy and grey, had meanings which it brought
From years of youth.
WORDSWORTH'S EXCURSION.
There were certain seasons of the year when the malady of the
Solitary assumed a more serious character than at others. From what
circumstance this proceeded was unknown. It might arise from an
association of ideas, connected in some manner with the events of
his life, the particulars of which, although curious persons had, at
various times, endeavored to draw them from him, he had never revealed
more plainly than in the conversations with Ohquamehud and the
doctor. The imagination was left to wander, therefore, among whatever
speculations respecting him it chose to indulge in, and, accordingly,
there was no hypothesis that could be started, however absurd, that
did not find advocates.
By some, he was supposed to be a murderer, whom remorse had driven
from the haunts of men, and who was endeavoring to expiate his
crimes by self-denial and suffering; others, asserted that he was the
Wandering Jew, though his long residence at the island militated
a little with the idea: however, that was balanced by his marked
reverence for the New Testament, and frequent references to the coming
of the Son of Man; while others insisted he was a pirate, who had
buried treasure on the lonely island, and there watched over its
security. This last opinion was received with especial favor by the
gaping vulgar, and further confirmed by the fact that the Solitary
never asked alms or was destitute of money, of which, indeed, he gave
away to those whom he considered poorer than himself. But whatever was
the truth, or however anxious the good people of Hillsdale might be to
discover the secret, no one ventured to meddle with him, though more
than one old woman had hinted that it was a shame he should be allowed
to run about with so long a beard, and a resolute fellow even once
suggested the expediency of arresting him on suspicion. As, however,
his life was perfectly harmless, and he had never been, nor seemed
likely to become, a burden to the town, nor had committed any act of
violence, such counsels were considered too harsh, especially as the
attempt to execute them might involve the town in expense and other
unpleasant consequences. Besides, it was known he had strong friends
in influential families, who would not permit him to be wronged or
quietly see the least of his rights invaded. The curiosity of the
place, therefore, was obliged to content itself with surmises, and to
wait until some more favorable period for its gratification.
The time of the year had now arrived when Holden was wont to show
himself more than usually restless and excitable. He had been
wandering one day since early in the morning, shooting partridges and
squirrels, until late in the afternoon he found himself at the Falls
of the Yaupáae. This was for him a favorite place of resort, and
here, stretched on the ground, he would lie for hours, with his eyes
fastened on the foaming water, listening to the cataract's roar, as
if it soothed his humor. Holden threw himself on the moss that
exuberantly covers the rocks, and essayed the spell. But this time, in
vain. He lay but a moment, when, starting up, he seized the rifle he
had laid aside, and making a considerable detour, in order to reach a
small bridge higher up the stream, he crossed it, and pursued his way
to the village.
Holden, notwithstanding he had lived so long in the vicinity and
had often been in the village, never made his appearance without
attracting attention. The little boys and girls, and even their
elders, seldom passed him without turning to look again. The
singularity of his dress, and fine tall person, as straight as his
rifle, and a beard, that waved like a prophet's, on his breast, would
have commanded observation anywhere. Joined to this was an air of
dignity and gravity that, in spite of the coarseness of his apparel,
insured respect. However much the rude and vulgar might feel disposed
to insult, they were too much awed by his presence to attempt it. They
might speak disrespectfully, indeed, of him in his absence, but before
him they were cowed and mute. The mystery, besides, with which their
imaginations surrounded him, invested him with a power the greater,
perhaps, on account of its indefiniteness. They forgot in gazing
at him, that his only means of living they were acquainted with was
derived from the sale of the oysters and fish he caught in the river,
and of the large baskets he made with his own hands. The meanness of
the occupation was lost sight of when they saw his majestic appearance
and heard the grand tones of his deep voice.
Holden proceeded down the street, hardly recognizing--though such was
not his wont--the friendly greetings with which he was sainted by many
that passed, until he arrived opposite the house of Mr. Armstrong.
Here his progress was arrested by a tap on a window, and looking up
he saw the bright face of Miss Armstrong, who was beckoning to him.
He stopped; the face disappeared to re-appear at the door, and Faith
invited him to come in. He hesitated, but the irresolution was only
momentary, for instantly he turned and entered the house.
"I doubted," he said, "whether it were right to inflict the gloom of
an old man on one so young. What have age and despondency in common
with youth and happiness?"
"But you do not doubt my sympathy? Is there anything I would not do to
make you happy, Father Holden?"
"No. I trust in thee as a parent in his child. Thou art as incapable
of deception as the heavens of a stain. I have known thee, Faith,
since thou wast a child, and thou hast always had an influence over
me. As the notes of the youthful harper of Israel scared away the
demons from the bosom of Saul, so do the tones of thy voice thrill
me like a melody from the past. So tell me of thyself and of all that
concerns thee, so far, at least, as thou canst impart thy thoughts and
feelings to one like me."
"The subjects that engage the attention of a young woman can have
little interest for you, father."
"Believe it not. Though my heart be sore, it has not lost all its
earlier feelings."
"I cannot speak of myself," said Faith. "My life has been too
destitute of incident to deserve mention, and it is already known to
you."
"What callest thou life? Is it," he continued, fixing his eyes on the
carpet, and speaking in a low tone, "the few gasps that agitate the
bosom here? If that were all, it were of but little more consequence
than any other sigh. But this is only the beginning. It is the
lighting of the spark that shall blaze a glorious star, or burn a
lurid conflagration for ever." He stopped; he raised his eyes to the
face of Faith, whose own were fastened on him, and gazed fondly on
her; his features assumed a softened expression; and, as if a new
train of thought had driven out the old, he added, "blessed are the
pure in heart, for they shall see God."
Apparently, these exclamations affected Faith with no surprise. She
had probably listened to similar conversations, and simply replied:
"Who shall say his heart is pure?"
"If not thou, then none. Sad thought, that the poisoned tongue of the
snake in Eden, should taint even a being so fair as thou."
"Father," said Faith, who was desirous of changing a conversation
which began to be embarrassing, for to such ejaculations it was
impossible to return reasonable answers, "do you love the loneliness,
of your island as much as ever? Would it not be more prudent to pass
the winter months in the village?"
"Thou art not the only one whose kindness hath asked the question.
But, in my youth I learned to love solitude, though it was forced on
me in the beginning. The dungeon and the chain introduced me to its
acquaintance; yet, such is the kindness of Providence, that, what at
first I hated, I afterwards learned to love. Know, too, that I have
lived in the boundless forest, until an inhabited street cramps my
breast and stifles my breath; nor am I ever less alone than when alone
with God. Ask me not, then, though thy intentions be kind, to renounce
a mode of life which habit hath made a second nature."
"Tell me of your adventures."
"Hold! Wouldst thou hear of a youth blasted by unkindness; of
prostrate hopes, and scenes of revenge and horror? Nay, thou knowest
not what thou askest."
"It was not through mere curiosity I made the request. Those who love
you would willingly know more, that they may be the better able to
promote your welfare."
"The motive," said Holden, taking her hand, and holding it an instant,
"is kind, my child; but what purpose would it serve? The time will
come when the secrets of all hearts shall be revealed: then let the
story of my crimes and wrongs be blazoned to the world."
Faith attached little credence to confessions of crimes which Holden
intimated he had committed. Had she done so, she might have felt alarm
at being thus alone with him. But his presence, so far from inspiring
her with terror, had something unaccountable of attraction. His
self-accusation she considered exaggerations of a morbid fancy that
converted common errors into unpardonable sins. Hers was a charity
that could think no evil, and in her imagination she had long since
formed a theory that, to her pure mind, made him an object of
deep interest. In Holden she saw a man of superior endowments and
breeding--his manners and language so far above those of most around
her, proved both; who, by undeserved misfortunes had partially lost
his reason, and, like the stricken deer, left the herd to die alone.
Sometimes she would fill up the picture with scenes from his supposed
life, at one time of one character, and at another time of another;
but they were merely sports of the Imagination, changing figures of a
kaleidoscope which employed without satisfying the mind. Of the truth
of her general hypothesis she was quite convinced, nor without hope
that her old friend would be restored to society and the position
which she considered his due. As children instinctively know those
who love them, so must Holden have originally had some idea of the
feelings of Faith, and by it been drawn closer to her. Certainly,
there was no one in whose society he took more pleasure, or whom he
was more desirous to please.
At this stage of the conversation, the door opened, and Mr. Armstrong
entered. He advanced to Holden, whose hand he took, and welcomed with
much cordiality. It was no new thing for him to see the Recluse in
his parlor. His daughter's partiality he well knew, of course; and
although, in his opinion, it was somewhat extraordinary that a young
lady should be attracted by Holden, he accounted for the circumstance
by ascribing it to the romance in her nature, of which she had no
common share.
The contrast was strong betwixt the appearance of the two men. On
the one hand, in perfect harmony with the adornment of the handsome
parlor, stood the delicate person of Mr. Armstrong, with cropped hair
and close-shaven face, in a suit of fine black cloth and muslin cravat
of spotless white, representing a refined, perhaps enervated phase of
civilization; on the other, the stately and vigorous form of Holden,
in a clean but coarse gray frock, girt around the waist with a sash,
with long hair falling on his neck, and unshorn beard, looking like
one better acquainted with the northern blast than with the comforts
of curtains and carpets.
"It is not often, brother Holden," said Mr. Armstrong, addressing him
by an epithet sometimes applied to him, "that I am so fortunate as to
meet you in my house."
"Dost thou speak from the heart, James Armstrong," replied Holden, "or
art thou flattering me with empty conventionalities?"
The melancholy face of Mr. Armstrong looked distressed, but,
remembering the wayward humor of the other, he gently answered:
"I am sorry the form of expression displeases you; but I assure you I
am glad to see you."
"Nay," said Holden, "let me rather beg pardon for my rudeness; and
that I fully believe thee, be my presence here the proof. I owe thee
many obligations through thy daughter, and there are times when it
does me good to be with her. It is then I fancy I hear in her voice
the tones of the long lost, and they come not with a wail of sorrow,
but like a welcome and an invitation."
"The lost!" softly said Armstrong, falling insensibly, and as by some
mesmeric process, into a corresponding train of feeling, "the lost!
how soon drop away from our sides those who made the morning of life
so pleasant!"
"Man is born to trouble, as the sparks fly upward," said Holden. "He
cometh from the womb of darkness, and returneth thither again."
The two men drew their chairs nearer each other. It seemed as if a new
community of thought and feeling had been established between them.
"You have suffered," said Armstrong, "perhaps lost all your dear ones,
and, in that, more miserable than I; for, have I not left my Faith?
But the hand that inflicted the wound can heal, and I trust the balm
has been poured in."
The countenance of Holden was agitated; his lips trembled, and, in a
broken voice, he replied:
"The nearest and dearest are gone. Yet hath God left me some comfort
in my affliction. I am not entirely bereft."
"In the promises of the Holy Scriptures you find consolation. Happy
the soul that draws comfort from their sacred pages!"
"I meant not entirely so. But it avails not now to explain. Yet art
thou right. I do find in the precious Book my dearest hope. Without
it, I were miserable indeed."
"And it sustains you under every trial and temptation?"
"Assuredly. For that very purpose was it given, that man might not
sink under the mystery of existence; that in its pages he should find
hope."
"And you find in it the warrant of your salvation?"
"I strive to work out my salvation, with fear and trembling."
"There are many who strive to enter, who shall not be able. How may
one be assured of safety?"
"There is a justification by faith. Hast thou never tasted of its
sweetness?"
"Alas! no," exclaimed Armstrong. "I have prayed for it, and longed for
it in vain. The threatenings of the Gospel and not its promises are
mine."
"Father, dear father, how can you speak so wildly?" cried his
daughter, throwing her arms around his neck and kissing his pale
cheek.
He looked at her a moment, then putting her away, gently, again
addressed Holden:
"Have you no word of comfort for me?"
"Faint not; neither be tired of well-doing," answered Holden, "and I
doubt not that the cloud which now concealeth the divine countenance
will depart, and thou shalt attain the peace that passeth
understanding."
"Have you attained it? Do you know what it is to be justified by
faith?"
"I have that blessed experience," cried the enthusiast. "Those whom He
called He justified. I am a brand plucked from the burning--a monument
of abounding mercy."
"Tell me, then," exclaimed Armstrong, "what are the signs by which it
may be known?" He said this eagerly, and with an air of the intensest
interest.
"I feel it," cried Holden, rising and standing before him, "in the
hatred that I bear towards all that conflicts with His will; in the
love with which I read His word; in the willingness to suffer all
things for the glory of His name, and to be damned for ever, if such
be His purpose; I feel it in that, through His grace, I can trample
the world under foot, and bear whatever cross His decree imposes; in
the struggle and the aspiration to be more like Him, and in that His
sovereign grace hath chosen me to reveal unto me His salvation and the
knowledge of His speedy coming."
It is impossible to convey an adequate idea of the manner in which
this was spoken. Words cannot describe the voice, or paint the wild
gleams of enthusiasm that, like lightning-flashes, coursed each other
over the features of Holden, as, without a gesture, and immovable as a
rock, an image of undoubting confidence, he delivered himself of this
extraordinary speech. Nor, carried away by its impassioned utterance,
were either Armstrong or his daughter aware of its full fanaticism.
But the impression made upon the two was somewhat diverse, and marked
how differently the chords of their minds were tuned. With all her
reverence for the Enthusiast, Faith could not hear his wild avowal
without pain, notwithstanding it was stamped with all the honesty of
conviction, and her own creed taught that such a degree of spiritual
elevation might be attained; while her father listened with a sad
admiration, not unmixed with self-abasement and almost envy.
After a pause, Armstrong said: "If such are the evidences of
justification and a saving faith, then have I had them, too; but why
bring they to me no confidence or holy joy? Why is my soul cast down,
and why do I feel like one who stumbles towards a pit? Alas! my flesh
quivers and my heart trembles at the thought of falling into His
hands."
"It is prayer that opens heaven," said Holden. "If thou wilt, we will
unite our hearts in supplication. Peradventure the Lord may send a
blessing."
A mute assent was the reply from Armstrong; the three knelt down
together, and Holden poured out a prayer, into which he concentrated
his glowing feelings. He described themselves as covered all over with
crimes, like a leprosy; as willful and determined rebels; as not only
unworthy of the least of God's mercies, of the warm sun and refreshing
rain, but deserving of the torments of the bottomless pit; but
entreated that, devoid of all merit, as they were, and justly exposed
to His wrath, their aggravated offences might be pardoned for the sake
of One who had taken their burden upon Himself, and that they might
be of the number of the elect, whom the foreordination of God had
predestined to salvation. He concluded with beseeching that the balm
of peace might be poured into his afflicted brother's heart, that his
ears might be opened to hear the truth, and his eyes to see how near
was the great and terrible day of the Lord, and that, as in ancient
days chosen women were raised up to do mighty works, even so Faith
might be made an instrument to proclaim His power abroad.
As the three rose from their knees, a change seemed, during the
prayer, to have passed over the little circle. Holden was invested
with an authority not felt before. Neither his speech nor dress was as
strange as formerly. He had become a teacher to be honored. It was the
influence of a mind originally powerful, and which, though shattered,
exercised the control of a strong will, guided by an earnest
fanaticism.