The lost hunter: A tale of early times

by John Turvill Adams

CHAPTER XLIII.

By his great Author man was sent below,
Some things to learn, great pains to undergo,
To fit him for what further he's to know.

This end obtained, without regarding time,
He calls the soul home to its native clime,
To happiness and knowledge more sublime.

ALLAN RAMSAY

The period of time which has elapsed since the occurring of the events detailed in the preceding chapters, enables us to give a tolerably full account of the destiny of the actors, who, for the space of a few months, have flitted across our stage.

James Armstrong lived in the enjoyment of pretty good health some two years after his recovery. The melancholy with which nature had tinged his disposition was, indeed, never quite eradicated, but probably those two years were the sweetest and sunniest of his life. Those whom he most loved were prosperous and happy, and the reflection of their happiness shone upon his daily walk. At the end of that time he fell asleep, and in the confidence of a lively faith and the comfort of a holy hope, was gathered to his fathers. Immediately upon the restoration of his reason he had divided his estate with his brother, or rather with his nephew, for the Solitary refused to have anything to do with wealth. It would be to him, he said, a burden. He was not a pack-horse, to carry loads, though they were made of gold.

With whatever eyes, however, the possession of property might be viewed by George Armstrong, his son, who, within a few months afterwards, was united to Anne Bernard, with even the approbation of her brother, considered the addition thereby made to his income as no disagreeable circumstance. Mr. and Mrs. Pownal, the benefactors of his youth, were present, and the former had the satisfaction of dancing at the wedding. No marriage could be more fortunate. A similarity of taste and feeling and the harmonies of virtue had originally attracted and attached each to the other. Anne had loved Armstrong because she recognized in him her own truthfulness and nobility of spirit, and he her, for her grace and beauty, and that inexpressible charm of sweetness of temper and gaiety of spirit, that, like the sun, diffuses light and animation around. Their career has been like a summer-day. A numerous family of children has sprung from the union, who promise to perpetuate the virtues of their parents. And it is to be hoped, and we believe it to be a fact which the passage of so many years may be considered to have tolerably settled, that the fatal blood-taint of insanity, which had seemed hereditary on the side of one of the parents, has disappeared.

As for the Solitary, who survived his brother many years, he could never be weaned from the mode of life he had adopted. As long as James Armstrong lived, they were frequently together, few days passing without one seeking the other, as if both were striving to make up for their long separation, but yet George Armstrong preferred the rude simplicity of his hut, and his hard couch, to the elegant chamber and yielding bed, nor could he be persuaded to stop more than a night or two at any one time, either at the house of his brother or of his son. The efforts made to change this feeling were soon found to be unavailing, and his commanding temper, as usual, had its way. After the death of his brother, his visits to the village became less frequent, and he was seldom to be met with, except at the house of his son. It was a strange sight to see him, with two or three grand-children on his knees, and playing, perhaps, with one of the little ones, amusing itself with hiding behind the flowing majesty of his long beard. A great part of his time was passed among the Indians living on the banks of the Severn, to the amelioration of whose condition and Christianization he devoted himself to the last. And some insist that he never quite gave up the expectation of the Millennium during his life, for early fishermen, passing his hut before sunrise, are said to have reported that they had seen the Solitary more than once, waiting for the rising sun, and heard his bursts of passionate expectation. An occurrence, too, at his death, which happened at the house of his son, justifies this opinion—when sitting up suddenly in his bed, he stretched out his arms, and exclaiming with a wild energy, "Lord, Thou art faithful and true, for I behold Thy coming," he fell back upon the pillow and expired. From respect to the memory of his father, his son bought the island where the Solitary lived so many years, and having planted it with trees, declares it shall never pass out of the family during his own life, and so long as it can be protected by his will.

Judge Bernard, his wife, the doctor, and the Pownals are gone, and the three former repose with their friends in the romantic burial ground, to which we once before conducted our readers; the two latter in the cemetery of the thronged city, undisturbed by the sounding tread of the multitudes who daily pass their graves.

William Bernard, about the time of the marriage of his sister, made a formal offer of his hand to Faith, but without success. He was refused gently, but so decidedly, that no room was left for hope. But if the enamored young man lost his mistress, he was satisfied there was no rival in the case, and moreover that probably there never would be. So selfish is the human heart, that this reflection mitigated the bitterness of his disappointment. Convinced that the prospect of altering her determination was hopeless, and unable to remain in her presence, he made a voyage to Europe, where he remained five years, and on his return, entered into political life. He has since filled many eminent stations with credit to himself and advantage to the country, and only delicacy restrains us from naming the high position he now occupies, of course under a different name from that we have chosen to give him. But he has never found another being to fill the void in his affections, and remains unmarried, the most graceful and attractive of old bachelors.

And what shall we say of Faith, the pure, the high souled the devoted Faith? As long as her father lived, he continued to be the object of her incessant solicitude. She watched him with a tenderness like that of a mother hovering about her sick infant, devoting her whole life to his service, and when he died, the tears she shed were not those of complaining grief, but of a sad thankfulness. Sad was she that no more in this world should she behold him whom she had ever treasured in her inner heart; thankful that with unclouded reason and resigned trust, he had returned to the Source whence he came. Soon after his death, she joined her uncle in his labors among the Indians, abandoning her home and devoting the whole of her large income to the promotion of their interests. There was much in her character that resembled that of George Armstrong, and notwithstanding the disparity of years, caused each to find an attractive counterpart in the other. There was the same enthusiasm, trespassing from constitutional tendencies, upon the very verge of reason; the same contempt of the world and its allurements; the same reaching forward toward the invisible. Her surpassing beauty, her accomplishments and great wealth, brought many suitors to her feet, but she had a heart for none. She turned a deaf ear to their pleadings, and "in maiden meditation fancy free," pursued her course like the pale moon through heaven. Perhaps the awful shock which she received on the terrible day when the appearance of her uncle saved her life, working on a temperament so exalted, may have contributed to confirm and strengthen what was at first only a tendency, and so decided the character of her life. She died as such gifted beings are wont to do, young, breathing out her delicate soul with a smile, upon the bosom of her faithful friend, Anne Armstrong. A purer spirit, and one better fitted to join the bright array of the blessed, never left the earth, and to those who knew her, it looked dark and desolate when she departed.

We have thus disposed of the principal personages in our drama. It remains to speak of some of those who have borne an inferior part in the scenes.

Esther left, with Quadaquina, for the Western tribes about the time when the boy attained the age of sixteen years, and historical accuracy compels us to admit, that, since their departure, we have lost all traces of them. One would suppose she would have remained with her powerful protectors, but it may be she feared the demoralization around her, to which, in spite of the efforts of the benevolent to the contrary, so many of her fated race fell victims, and preferred to expose Quadaquina to the perils of savage life, rather than to the tender mercies of civilization. We strongly suspect, that her wild creed was never fairly weeded out of her heart.

Primus remained to the end the same cheery, roguish fellow we have seen him, and when he died was buried, as became a revolutionary celebrity, with military honors, which so affected Felix, that, when his turn came—knowing that he was entitled to no such distinction, and, yet loth to pass away unnoticed—he begged Doctor Elmer to write him a "first-rate epithet." The doctor redeemed his promise, by prefacing a panegyric, in English, with the following quotation from Virgil—

Hic jacet
FELIX QUI
Potuit Rerum cognoscere Causas
QUI
Que Metus omnes
Et inexorabile Fatum
Subjecit Pedibus
Strepitumque Acherontis avari.

The doctor, on being asked its meaning, one day, by an inquisitive negro, who had, for some time, been rolling the whites of his eyes at the inscription, in a vain attempt to understand it, replied, it meant that Felix was an intelligent and brave fellow, who lived like a wise man, and died like a hero, whereat, his auditor expressed great satisfaction, considering both the Latin and the sentiment a compliment to "colored pussons," generally.

Gladding emigrated to the West, where his stout arm and keen axe did himself and the State good service. After making a fabulous number of "claims," and as many "trades," he found himself, at middle age, the master of a thousand acres of cleared land, with a proper proportion of timber; his log-cabin converted into a brick house, and sons and daughters around him.

We had almost forgotten to speak of the fate of Constable Basset. The good people of Hillsdale soon found out that his talents did not lie in the line he had adopted, and, at the next election, chose another in his place. Thereupon, not discouraged, he turned his hand, with national facility, to something else—following, successively, the business of a small grocer, of a tavern keeper, and of an auctioneer. Somehow or other, however, ill luck still followed him; and, finally, he took to distributing the village newspaper, and sticking up handbills. This gave him a taste for politics, and having acquired, in his employment as auctioneer, a certain fluency of speech, he cultivated it to that degree—in town meetings and on other public occasions—that, in the end, there was not a man in the whole county who could talk longer and say less. His fellow-citizens observing this congressional qualification, and not knowing what else he was fit for, have just elected him to Congress, partly because of this accomplishment, and, partly, on account of his patriotic dislike of "furriners," a sentiment which happens now to be popular. Both his friends and enemies agree that he is destined to make a figure there; and Mr. Thomas Armstrong—in compensation, perhaps, for a youthful trick—has promised the Member of Congress a new hat and full suit of black broadcloth, to enable him to appear in proper style on Pennsylvania Avenue.