The lost hunter: A tale of early times

by John Turvill Adams

But, if they were pleased, how shall we express the happiness of James Armstrong? The sting of a sorrow that had poisoned so many years of his life was extracted. If he had been the cause of misfortune to his brother, he had it now in his power to repair, in a degree, the wrong he had inflicted. Nor had he recovered only a brother, but also a nephew, whom he could love and respect, and who would, in some measure, supply the loss of his son, by transmitting his family name, the extinction of which no man can regard with indifference.

Long was the conversation of the brothers after their children had left them to themselves. Together they wandered over the scenes of childhood, recalling its minutest, and, what would be to strangers, uninteresting scenes, George Armstrong listening, with a sad pleasure, to the details of his parents' lives after his own escape from the Asylum, and, also, to changes in the family of his brother since their death; while James Armstrong as eagerly drank in the particulars of his brother George's adventures. But little respecting the latter need be added, after what has been disclosed.

We already know, that George Armstrong married, in one of the Western States, and commenced the life of a pioneer, and that, in a night attack, his cabin had been burned, his wife killed, and his son carried away by the savages. It would seem that the effect of these misfortunes was again to disturb his reason, and that, urged by a passion for revenge, he had made himself terrible, under the name of Onontio (given by the natives, with what meaning is unknown,) among the Western Indians. But, after a time, the feeling passed away, and he became, somehow, a subject of religious impressions, which assumed the shape of a daily expectation of the Coming of Christ, joined with a firm belief in the doctrine of predestination. In this frame of mind, influenced by a feeling like the instinct, perhaps, of the bird which returns from the southern clime, whither the cold of winter has driven it, to seek again the tree where hung the parental nest, George Armstrong came back to the place of his birth. He was supposed to be dead, and, even without any such prepossession, no one would have recognized him; for, the long beard he had suffered to grow, and the sorrow and hardship he had undergone, gave him an appearance of much more advanced age than his elder brother, and effectually disguised him. Why, instead of taking possession of the cabin, on Salmon Island, and secluding himself from society, he did not make himself known to his brother and demand his inheritance, always puzzled the gossips of Hillsdale, and yet, it appears to us, susceptible of explanation.

When he came from the West, he felt, at first, as if the ties which had united him to the world, were broken, never to be renewed. What he most prized and loved he had lost. He was an exception to other men. He had been isolated by destiny, whose iron finger pointed to solitude, and solitude he chose as most congenial to his bruised spirit. But, besides, an idea had mastered him, in whose presence the vanities and indulgences of the world and all worldly considerations, shrunk into insignificance. Of what consequence were wealth and distinction to one who looked momently for the introduction of a state of things, when they would be of less importance than the baubles of a child? The gay world might laugh and jest in its delusion, but it was for him to watch and pray. Some feeling of resentment, too, towards his brother, may have helped to color his conduct. As time, however, wore on, his heart began to expand to human affections; for we have seen, how fond he became of the society, first, of Faith, and, finally, of his brother; deriving, possibly, a sort of insane gratification from even the concealment of his relationship, as a miser gloats over the security of his hoard. It is, indeed, probable, that, but for the discovery of his son, he would have died without betraying the secret, but, that discovery awakened anew feelings which he never expected to have again in this life. He looked upon his son and the inheritance, which to him was valueless, assumed an importance. And it may be—who can tell?—that, sometimes, a doubt—for how long had he waited in vain?—might throw a shadow over his expectation of the Millennium. But this we have no means of determining, and, as we shall presently see, his subsequent life rather sustains the opposite opinion.

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.