The Lost Hunter by John Turvill Adams

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THE LOST HUNTER.

A Tale of Early Times.

"And still her grey rocks tower above the sea
That murmurs at their feet, a conquered wave;
'Tis a rough land of earth, and stone, and tree,
Where breathes no castled lord or cabined slave;
Where thoughts, and tongues, and hands, are bold and free,
And friends will find a welcome, foes a grave;
And where none kneel, save when to heaven they pray,
Nor even then, unless in their own way."
HALLECK

NEW YORK:

DERBY & JACKSON, 119 NASSAU STREET.
CINCINNATI:--H.W. DERBY.

1856.

ENTERED according to Act of Congress, in the year 1855, by

J.C. DERBY,

in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States, for
the Southern District of New York.

W.H. TINSON, Stereotyper.

PUDNEY & RUSSELL Printers.

APOLOGY

As one might justly be considered a clown, or, at least, not well
bred, who, without tapping at the door, or making a bow, or saying "By
your leave," or some other token of respect, should burst in upon
a company of persons unknown to him, and instead of a welcome would
deserve an unceremonious invitation to betake himself elsewhere
forthwith; so, I suppose, in presenting myself before you, my
honored Public, it is no more than civil to say something by way of
introduction. At least, I have observed from my obscure retreat in the
quiet village of Addlebrains, that the fashion in this respect, which
has prevailed, certainly, since the time of St. Luke, who commences
his Gospel with a preface to Theophilus, has come down to the present
day, differing therein from other fashions, which, for the most part,
are as transitory as the flowers of the field, and commending itself
thereby to the thoughtful consideration of the judicious; for it
cannot be deemed there is no value in that which has received the
sanction of centuries. Influenced by reflections of this description
and the like, I sat down one day in the little retreat, which the
indulgent partiality of my friends is accustomed to dignify with the
title of my "study," to endeavor to write a preface, and introduce
myself in a becoming manner to my readers. I was the more anxious
to do this properly, because, although a mere countryman, a sort of
cowhide shoe, as I may say, and therefore lacking that gloss, which,
like the polish on a well-brushed boot, distinguishes and illustrates
the denizens of our metropolis in an eminent degree, as I know from
personal experience, having been twice in New York, and, as I am told,
also, the citizens of Boston and Philadelphia, and other provincial
towns, with a milder lustre, I would not like to be supposed entirely
destitute of refinement. It would be strange if I were, inasmuch as I
enjoyed in my youth, the privilege of two terms and a half instruction
in the dancing school of that incomparable professor of the
Terpsichorean science, the accomplished Monsieur St. Leger Pied. It
is in consequence of this early training, perhaps, that I am always
pained when there is any deflection or turning aside from, or neglect
of, the graceful, the becoming, and the proper.

It will be observed that my last quarter was cut short in the middle;
which untoward event arose from no arrogance or supercilious conceit
on my part, as though I had perfected myself in the mysteries of
pigeon-wing and balancez, but from the abrupt departure of
the professor himself, who, true to the name indicative of his
constitutional levity, found it convenient to disappear betwixt two
days, with the advance pay of my whole term in his pocket, and
without stopping to make even one of his uncommonly genteel bows. The
circumstance was peculiarly disagreeable to me, in consequence of the
school being assembled when our loss was discovered, and of my having
succeeded in engaging, for the greater part of the evening, the hand
of a young lady, whose charms had made a deep (though, as subsequent
events proved, not a durable) impression on my susceptible heart.
Monsieur was our only musician, and, of course, with his violin
went the dancing. The cause of his evasion or flight was variously
accounted for, some ascribing it to a debt he had contracted for
kid gloves and pumps, and others to dread of the wrath of a young
gentleman, whose sister he had been so imprudent as to kiss in the
presence of another girl, not remarkable for personal attractions, to
whom he had never paid the same compliment. As was to be expected, she
was scandalized at the impropriety and want of taste, and immediately
made it known, in spite of the entreaties of the blushing beauty and
the "pardons" of Monsieur. As Virgilius has it,

"Manet alta mente i epostum,
Judicium Paridis spretaeque injuria formae."

In my opinion, it was the kiss that cost poor Monsieur Pied his
school, and me a dollar and a half, three dollars being the price
for a term's instruction. Not, I beg to be understood, that I care
anything about the money, but in relating an event I like to be
circumstantial and strictly accurate. But I find that, wiled away by
the painfully pleasing reminiscences of my youth, I am wandering
from my undertaking, which is, not to narrate the misadventures of a
dancing-master, but to compose a preface.

I had seated myself, as I was saying, in my little den or confugium,
where, as in a haven of rest, I love to hide myself from the
distractions of the world, and concentrate my thoughts, and which has
been to me the scene of many sad as well as pleasant hours, and dipped
my goose quill (anathema maranatha on steel pens, which I cannot help
fancying, impart a portion of their own rigidity to style, for if the
stylus be made of steel is it not natural that the style by derivation
and propinquity should be hard?) into the ink-stand, after first
casting my eyes on the busts of Shakespeare and Milton, which, cast
in plaster, adorn my retirement, half imploring them to assist in so
important an enterprise, when the door opened, and who should enter
but my dear friend, the Rev. Increase Grace? But here let me remark
parenthetically, the habit of dealing in parentheses being one I
especially dislike, only necessity compelling me thereto, and before I
proceed further, that the word "confugium," which, both on account of
its terse expressiveness, as well as its _curiosa felicitas_ in the
present application, I have chosen in order to define my den, has not,
I hope, escaped the notice of the discriminating scholar. Moreover,
I trust that I shall not incur the imputation of vanity if I take to
myself some little credit for the selection. It will be observed that
it is a compound term, the latter part, "fugium" (from fuga, flight),
characterizing the purpose to which my secluded nook is applied as
a refuge, whither I fly from the unmeaning noise and vanity of the
world; and the prefix, "con" (equivalent to cum, with), conveying
the idea of its social designation. For I should be loth to have it
thought that, like Charles Lamb's rat, who, by good luck, happening to
find a Cheshire cheese, kept the discovery a profound secret from
the rest of the rats, in order to monopolize the delicious dainty,
pretending all the while that his long and frequent absences at a
certain hole were purely for purposes of heavenly contemplation, his
mind having of late become seriously impressed, and, therefore, he
could not bear interruption, I am in the habit of ensconcing myself
with a selfish exclusion therein. Far from it: the door is never
barred against admission, and my confugium rather means (though the
dictionaries with their usual vagueness so much to be lamented, have
not succeeded in eviscerating its full signification) a common place
of retirement for myself and intimate friends. Hence it was not as an
intrusion, but, on the contrary, as an acceptable call, that I greeted
the arrival of Increase. There must have been an unusual degree of
gravity in my countenance corresponding with the importance of the
work I was about to undertake, for the reverend gentleman had hardly
taken a seat before he observed it, and inquired into its cause. We
are upon that footing of intimacy, that there was no impropriety in
the question, and I unhesitatingly acquainted him with my purpose.

"I should as soon think," said the Rev. Increase, "of building a
verandah before a wood-house, or putting mahogany doors into my old
toppling down church."

The remark was not very complimentary, but great freedom of speech
prevails between us, and I took no offence; especially as I knew that
the Rev. gentleman was smarting under a disappointment in the sale
of a volume of sermons, whence he had expected great things, from
the publication of which I had vainly endeavored to dissuade him, and
whose meagre proceeds fully justified my forebodings. The mention of
my work naturally recalled this afflictive dispensation, and _hinc
illae lacrimae_. Reading his mind, I answered, therefore, as gently as
a slight tremor in my voice would allow, that there was no accounting
for tastes, and that as trifling a thing as a song had been known to
outlive a sermon.

I declare I meant no harm, but his reverence (one of the best men in
the world, but who, in every sense of the word, belongs to the "church
militant,") instantly blazed up--

"I dare say," he said, bitterly, "that you understand the frippery
taste of this trivial age better than I. A capability to appreciate
solid reading, reading that cultivates the understanding while it
amends the heart, seems to be with the forgotten learning before the
flood. They who pander to this diseased appetite have much to answer
for; not," he was pleased to add--his indignation cooling off like a
steam-boiler which has found vent, "that the trifle on which for the
last few months you have been wasting your time has not a certain kind
of merit, but it seems a pity, that one, capable of better things,
should so miserably misapply his powers."

These sentiments were not entirely new to me, else I might have become
a little excited; for, during the whole time while I was engaged in
the composition of the work, my friend, who is, also, in the habit
of communicating his literary enterprises to me, would insist upon my
reading him the chapters, as fast as they came along, manifesting no
little curiosity in the manner in which I should disengage myself from
difficulties in which he supposed me from time to time involved,
and exuberant delight at the ingenious contrivances, as, in a
complimentary mood, he once said, by which I eluded them. It is true,
all this betrayal of interest was accompanied by various pishes and
pshaws, and lamentations over the trifling character of my pursuits;
but, like too many others, both in his cloth and out of it, his
conduct contradicted his language, and I was encouraged by the former,
while I only smiled at the latter.

"If such be your opinion," said I, suddenly seizing the manuscript,
which lay before me, and making a motion to throw it into the fire;
"if such be your candid opinion, I had better destroy the nonsense at
once."

"Hold!" cried the Rev. Increase, arresting my hand, "you are
shockingly touchy and precipitate; how often have I cautioned you
against this trait of your character. Because your workling does not
deserve to be mentioned in the same category with works of solid and
acknowledged merit, like, for instance, Rollin's Ancient History
or Prideaux' Connexion, and can, at best, enjoy but an ephemeral
existence, does it deserve to have no existence at all? On your
principle, we should have no butterflies, because their careless lives
last but a day."

"Well, Increase," said I, "if, like the butterfly, whose short and
erratic presence imparts another beauty to green fields and blue
skies, and blossoms, and songs of birds, my little book shall be able
to seduce a smile to the lips, or cheat away a pain from the bosom
of one of those whom you are so fond of calling 'pilgrims through a
dreary wilderness,' I shall feel amply compensated for the waste of my
time."

"If your expectations are so moderate, I see no harm in your indulging
them," said my friend; "but I cannot help wishing you had oftener
taken my advice in its composition."

"I have great respect for your opinion," I answered, "but I find it
impossible to pass the ideas of another through the crucible of my
mind and do them justice. Somehow or other, when I am expecting a
stream of gold, it turns out a _caput mortuum_ of lead. No, my better
course is to coin my copper in my own way. But, tell me frankly, what
offends you."

My Rev. friend had, by this time, forgotten his unfortunate volume of
sermons, and resumed his good nature.

"Offends me? my dear friend, and half-parishoner (for I notice a bad
habit you have got into, of late, of attending church only in the
morning--pray reform it), you use a very harsh term. There is nothing
in the book that offends me; although," he added, cautiously, "I
do not mean to say that I sanction entirely either your religious,
philosophical, or political speculations. I am no flatterer, and claim
the privilege of a friend to speak my mind."

"My dear Increase," said I, pressing his hand, "I love you all the
more for your sincerity; but why do you call them my speculations? I
have expressed no opinions. They are the opinions of the characters,
and not mine. I wish you and all the world distinctly to understand
that."

"And yet the world will hold you to account for them. If a man fires
a gun into a crowd, is he not responsible for any mischief that may be
the consequence?"

"I do not expect to make so loud a report," said I, smiling; "but I
protest against your doctrine. Why, according to that, an author is
accountable for all the opinions of his dramatis personae, however
absurd and contradictory they may be."

"I do not go so far as that. I hold that the author is only
responsible for the effect produced: if that effect be favorable to
virtue, he deserves praise; if the contrary, censure."

"I admit the justice of the view you take, with that limitation; and I
trust it is with a sense of such accountability I have written," said
I. "May I, then, flatter myself with the hope that you will grant me
your imprimatur?"

"You have it," said he; "and may no critic regard your book with less
indulgent eyes than mine. But what name do you give the bantling?"

"Oh," said I, "I have not concluded, I fancy that one name is nearly
as good as another."

"I don't know about that," said the Rev. Increase. "A couple who
brought their child lately to me to be baptized did not think so,
at any rate. I inquired what was the name chosen, when, to my
astonishment, I heard sounds which resembled very much one of the
titles bestowed upon the arch enemy of mankind. Supposing that my ears
deceived me, I inquired again, when the same word, to my horror, was
more distinctly repeated. 'Lucifer!' said I, to myself, 'impossible!
I cannot baptize a child by such a name.' I bent over once more, and
a third time asked the question. The answer was the same, and repeated
louder and with an emphasis, as if the parents were determined to have
that name or none. By this time my situation had become embarrassing,
for there was I, in the presence of the whole waiting congregation,
standing up with the baby in my arms, which, to add to my
consternation, set up a squall as if to convince me that he was
entitled to the name. My bachelor modesty could stand the scene no
longer; so, hastily dipping my fingers in the font, and resolving he
should have a good name, as opposite as possible to the diabolical
one so strangely selected, I baptized the infant George Washington.
I thought the parents looked queerly at the time, but the rite was
performed, the baby had got an excellent name, and I was relieved. But
conceive, if you can, my confusion, when, after service, the father
and mother came into the vestry, and the latter bursting into tears,
exclaimed: 'Oh, thir, what have you done? Ith a girl, ith a girl! and
you've called her George Wathington! My poor little Luthy, my dear
little Luthy!' Alas! the mother lisped, and when I asked for the
name, meaning to be very polite, and to say, Lucy, sir, in reply to
my question, she had said, 'Luthy, thir,' which I mistook for Lucifer.
What was to be done? I consoled the afflicted parents as well as I was
able, and promised to enter the name in the parish registry and town
records as Lucy, which I did; but for all that, the girl's genuine,
orthodox name is George Washington!"

"I see," said I, paying him for his joke with the expected laugh,
"there is something in a name, and we must be cautious in its choice."
The result was, that I followed my friend's advice in adopting the one
which was finally selected. Soon after the Rev. gentleman took his hat
and left me to my meditations. Thereupon I resumed my pen, and vainly
endeavored to write a preface. At last, in despair, I could hit
upon no better expedient than to explain to you, my dear Public, the
circumstances which prevent my doing it now. You will sympathize with
my mortification, and forgive my failure for the sake of the honest
effort, and no more think of condemning me, than you would the
aforesaid rustic, alluded to in the beginning of this my apology,
should he, instead of boisterously rushing in upon the company,
endeavor (his sense of the becoming overcoming his bashfulness) to
twist his body into the likeness of a bow, thereby only illustrating
and confirming the profound wisdom of the maxim, _non omnia possumus
omnes_. Should our awkward attempts be classed together, I shall
nevertheless indulge the hope, that better acquaintance with you will
increase my facility of saying nothing with grace, and improve my
manners, even as I doubt not that under the tuition of Monsieur Pied,
the aforesaid countryman might, in time, be taught to make a passable
bow.

For ever, _vive_, my dear Public, and, until we meet again (which,
whether we ever do, will depend upon how we are pleased with each
other), _vale_.

THE AUTHOR.

CHAPTER I.

At last the golden orientall gate
Of greatest heaven gan to open fayre,
And Phoebus fresh as brydegrome to his mate,
Came dauncing forth, shaking his deawie hayre,
And hurld his glistening beams through gloomy ayre.

SPENSER'S FAERY QUEENE.

It was a lovely morning in the autumn of the year of grace 18--. The
beams of the sun had not yet fallen upon the light veil of mist that
hovered over the tranquil bosom of the river Severn, and rose and
gathered itself into folds, as if preparing for departure at the
approach of an enemy it were in vain to resist. With a murmur, so soft
it was almost imperceptible, glided the stream, blue as the heaven it
mirrored, between banks now green and gently shelving away, crowned
with a growth of oak, hickory, pine, hemlock and savin, now rising
into irregular masses of grey rocks, overgrown with moss, with here
and there a stunted bush struggling out of a fissure, and seeming to
derive a starved existence from the rock itself; and now, in strong
contrast, presenting almost perpendicular elevations of barren sand.
Occasionally the sharp cry of a king-fisher, from a withered bough
near the margin, or the fluttering of the wings of a wild duck,
skimming over the surface, might be heard, but besides these there
were no sounds, and _they_ served only to make the silence deeper.
It is at this hour, and upon an island in the river that our story
commences.

The island itself is of an irregular shape and very small, being
hardly an acre in extent, and its shore covered with pebbles and
boulders of granite. Near the centre, and fronting the east, stands an
unpainted wood cabin of the humblest appearance, the shape and size
of which is an oblong of some thirty by fifteen feet. One rude door
furnishes the only means of entrance, and light is admitted through
two small windows, one on the east and the other on the west side.
Straggling patches of grass, a few neglected currant-bushes behind
the hut, and a tall holly-hock or two by the door are all the signs of
vegetation that meet the eye.

At the door of this cabin, and at the time we are describing, stood
a solitary figure. He was a gaunt, thin man, whose stature rather
exceeded than fell below six feet. The object about his person which
first arrested attention was a dark grizzled beard, that fell half-way
down his breast, in strong contrast with a high white forehead,
beneath which glowed large dreamy eyes. The hair of his head, like his
beard, was long, and fell loosely over his shoulders. His dress was of
the coarsest description, consisting of a cloth of a dusky grey color,
the upper garment being a loose sort of surtout, falling almost to the
knees, and secured round the waist by a dark woollen sash. His age
it was difficult to determine. It might have been anywhere between
forty-five and fifty-five years.

The attitude and appearance of the man, were that of devotion and
expectancy. His body was bent forward, his hands clasped, and his
eyes intently fastened on the eastern sky, along the horizon of which
layers of clouds, a moment before of a leaden hue were now assuming
deeper and deeper crimson tints. As the clouds flushed up into
brighter colors his countenance kindled with excitement. His form
seemed to dilate, his eyes to flash, his hands unclasped themselves,
and he stretched out his arms, as if to welcome a long expected
friend. But presently the rays of the sun began to stream over the
swelling upland and light up the surface of the river, and fainter and
fainter shone the clouds, until they gradually melted into the blue
depth away. It was then a shade of disappointment, as it seemed,
passed over the face of the man. Its rapt expression faded, he cast
a look almost of reproach to heaven, and his feelings found vent in
words.

"Hast Thou not said, 'Behold, I come quickly?' Why then delay the
wheels of Thy chariot? O, Lord, I have waited for Thy salvation. In
the night-watches, at midnight, at cock-crowing, and in the morning,
have I been mindful of Thee. But chiefly at the dawn hath my soul gone
forth to meet Thee, for then shall appear the sign of the Son of Man
in Heaven, and they shall see him coming in the clouds of Heaven, with
power and great glory. And he shall send His angels with a great sound
of a trumpet, and they shall gather together His elect from one end of
Heaven to the other."

His eyes glared wildly round, then fell and fastened on the ground,
and for a few moments he remained immovable as a statue, after which,
with an air of dejection, he turned as if about to enter the hut. At
that moment the report of a gun from the shore close by was heard, and
looking, up he saw a man fall from the sloping bank upon the beach.

If there had been any appearance of weakness or infirmity before in
the Recluse, it now vanished. Nothing could exceed the promptitude and
energy of his movements. To rush to the water, to throw himself into
a boat, to unfasten it from the stake to which it was tied, and with a
vigorous push to send it half-way across the channel, was the work of
but an instant. A few dextrous and strong strokes of the paddle soon
sent it grating on the pebbled shore, and with a bound he was by the
side of the prostrate man. He lay with his face to the ground, with
one arm stretched out, and the other cramped up beneath his body. Near
him the leaves and grass were stained with drops of blood, and at a
short distance a gun was lying.

The old man passed his arm around the stranger, to raise him from his
recumbent position. The motion must have occasioned pain, for a low
groan was heard. But it, at least, attested the presence of life,
and there was consolation in even those sad sounds. With all the
tenderness of a mother he raised the wounded man in his arms, and
endeavored to discover the place and character of the wound, in order
to staunch, if possible, the bleeding. But it was soon apparent that
all such attempts would be useless, and only tend to aggravate the
pain without leading to any desirable result, so long as the clothing
was allowed to remain on. The better course seemed to be to remove him
immediately to the hut. As gently, therefore, as possible, the old man
bore him to the boat, and deposited him upon its bottom. A few strokes
of the paddle sent it back again to the island, and soon the wounded
stranger was lying on a rude, but welcome bed. Here the first thing to
be done was to divest him of his coat and such other clothing as hid
the wound. Having performed this duty, which was done by cutting off
the coat and tearing the under garments, the next care of the old man
was, in the best manner in his power, to apply bandages to stop the
blood, which trickled from the right side and shoulder. This was done
with no little skill, as by one who did not then see a gun-shot wound
for the first time. The process was accompanied by an occasional
groan, when the bandages pressed the wounded parts too closely, which
the sufferer seemed to try to suppress, appearing, at the same time,
to endeavor to express his thanks, by a smile and the soft glances of
his eyes. Any attempt at exertion was instantly repressed by his kind
nurse, who never failed, when it occurred, to enjoin quiet.

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