"He held a letter in his withered hand
Which brought good tidings of the absent one.
O, what soul-cheering things are letters, when
They come fresh from the hand of one we love,
All brimming o'er with kindly-uttered words!"
The wailing winds swept onward with low and piteous sound, while the
"Hermit of the Cedars" sat beneath his humble roof, beside a rough
table, and, by the light of a tallow candle, pored over a
closely-written page. In the recess of the small window, a bright-haired
boy was sitting, very like the dreamy Edgar who sat there in summers and
seasons passed by, and watched the stars gleaming, like showers of
diamonds, through the interlacing forest-boughs. But it was not Edgar,
for he was far away, storing his mind from the mines of ancient lore.
It was our little friend, Willie Danforth, the washerwoman's boy, for
whom the hermit had taken a large fancy since Edgar left him, and often
coaxed him from his mother to pass a few nights at the hut in the
forest. Willie, as we see him now, in the place where we were wont to
behold Edgar, is certainly wonderfully like him; and so thought Florence
Howard, when she saw the tall, graceful youth, in the same morocco cap
and blue frock coat Edgar used to wear, wending his way past her
father's mansion to the seminary on the hill. She sought to learn his
name; and some person, not very well informed, said 'twas William
Greyson, another foundling of that strange hermit's.
But we wander from the lonely man, who still pores over the sheet he
holds in his attenuated fingers. It is a letter from Edgar Lindenwood.
"Dear, dear uncle," it runs, "gladly I turn from musty tomes of olden
time lore, to give to you the star-lit midnight hour. Fancy, on airy
pinions, flits away over mountain-top and valley, and rests upon that
long arm of the tall linden, that stretches close to your lowly window,
and gazes through the narrow panes on your dear form, bending over some
treasured volume, or sitting, with bowed head, before a blazing fire,
lost in reveries of thought and contemplation. You express a fear that I
may have deemed you arbitrary and severe in the control sometimes
exercised over my humors and inclinations. Your fear is groundless,
uncle. Though some of your commands may have cost me a struggle ere I
could unmurmuringly obey, I have too high an estimate of your judgment
and discrimination to rebel against an authority I feel is grounded in
reason, and only exercised for my benefit and welfare in future life.
"I remember a tale, my mother oft breathed in my infantine ears, of a
bright star that once skirted the literary horizon, and ere long darkly
disappeared; of a lofty, sensitive nature, that met a staggering blow,
and reeled to earth, no more to soar aloft. And, though I have never
known the details of that early disappointment, I regard, with
overflowing reverence, sympathy, and devotional affection, the suffering,
uncomplaining heart that struggles silently on, with its wreck of
youthful hopes and aspirations.
"Shall I tell you, uncle, my university life promises to be a brief one?
You will think it augurs badly for the erudition of the faculty of this
institution, when I inform you that they have placed me among the senior
class, which will graduate in the coming spring. Then I propose to take a
brief tour of travel, and amuse myself by sketching from the beautiful
scenery of this country. I find the passion for art increases with my
years. Once I wished to be a poet, but now the painter's pencil yields me
most delight.
"Ere long I hope to return to that home among the Cedars, and sit down to
quiet evenings by my dear uncle's side, with no sound in our ears save
the eternal roar of the mighty forest winds.
"Far from experiencing a jealous pang, I rejoice to learn you have found
an object of interest in the youth you have taken under your care. May he
prove a grateful companion to your solitude, is the sincere wish of,
Yours, most truly, EDGAR."
Such were the contents of the letter which the hermit perused several
times ere he folded it, and turned his attention to the boy, who was
still sitting by the small window, gazing forth into the windy night.
"William," said he--and the lad approached.
Something seemed trembling on the thin lips of the recluse which he
hesitated to reveal. At length, as if suddenly changing his purpose, he
said: "Do you think your mother is comfortable, to-night, my boy?"
"O, yes, sir!" answered Willie, "the large bundle of sticks you left at
her door yesterday evening will keep her warm for several days."
"I hope they may," returned the hermit; "'tis a sad thing to be poor,
Willie, but 'tis a sadder thing to be wicked."
"You do not think my mother is wicked, do you?" asked the boy, turning
his blue eyes quickly on the hermit's countenance.
"Why do you ask?" said he, returning Willie's startled glance with a
grave smile.
"Because I knew Mr. Pimble's folks said harsh things of her, and I
didn't know but you believed them, as you never chose to enter our
humble abode."
"My gloomy disposition is averse to intercourse with the generality of
my species," returned the hermit, in a solemn tone; "nor do I ever heed
or hear the tales and gossipings of idle lips. In the last ten years I
have held no converse with any human beings, save you and your ---- and
my nephew, Edgar Lindenwood."
Willie gazed on the strange man before him in silent awe. "Has your
mother ever expressed a wish to see me?" inquired the hermit, after a
pause.
"Often," said Willie.
"For what purpose?" demanded the recluse, in a quick, sudden tone,
looking eagerly on the boy's face.
"To thank you for all your kindness to her," replied the lad,
ingenuously.
"O, yes!" returned the solitary man, his features relapsing into their
usual placid serenity. "I wish not, nor deserve, her thanks for the
humble charities given. Let us seek our couch, my boy."
"Have you another name than William?" he asked, as they were lying down.
"Yes," answered the youth; "William Ralph is my name,--the first for my
father, the second for an uncle who went to distant countries, ere I can
remember, and has never been heard of since."
"Was the uncle your father's or mother's brother?" inquired the hermit,
in a careless tone.
"My mother's. Ralph Greyson was his name."
"And does your mother appear to mourn his loss, or wish for his return?"
said the hermit, still in the same careless, half-absorbed tone of
voice.
"She speaks pityingly of him sometimes, for he was a bright, promising
youth, she says, when one distressful circumstance crushed his hopes and
ruined his usefulness; but I do not think she desires his return, for he
left his native shores cursing her as the cause of his misfortunes."
"Ah! how had she caused his misfortunes?" asked the hermit, drowsily.
"By marrying below her sphere," said Willie, in a trembling, embarrassed
tone; "a man who proved a vulgar sot, and thus disgracing him in the
eyes of a proud family, with whom he sought an alliance."
As Willie ceased speaking, the hermit breathed heavily, as if in deep
sleep; so, turning his face to the cedar-plaited wall, the lad was soon
wrapped in his own sweet, youthful slumbers.