Bennett, Emerson - Ella Barnwell

by Ella Barnwell (lit)

  Algernon spoke in a clear, distinct, earnest tone--in a manner that showed the subject was not new to his thoughts; and after a short pause, during which Ella made no reply, he again proceeded.

  "In this grand organ of man--where all things are strange and incomprehensible--to me the combination of the physical and mental is strangest of all. The soul and the body are united and yet divided. Each is distinct from and acts without the other at times, and yet both act in concert with a wonderful power. The soul plans and the body executes. The body exercises the soul--the soul the body. The one is visible--the other invisible; the one is mortal--the other immortal. Now why do they act together here? Why was not each placed in its separate sphere of action? Again: What is the soul? Men tell us it is a spirit. What is a spirit? An invisible something that never dies. Who can comprehend it? None. Whither does it go when separated forever from the body? None can answer, save in language of Scripture: 'It returns to God who gave it.'"

  "I have never heard the proposition advanced by another," continued Algernon, after another slight pause, "but I have sometimes thought myself, that the soul departs from the body, for a brief season, and wanders at will among scenes either near or remote, and returns with its impressions, either clouded or clear, to communicate them to the corporeal or not, as the case may be: hence dreams or visions, and strong impressions when we wake, that something bright and good has refreshed our sleep, or something dark and evil has made it troubled and feverish. Again I have sometimes thought that this soul--this invisible and immortal something within us--has power at times to look into the future, and see events about to transpire; which events being sometimes of a dark and terrible nature, leave upon it like impressions; and hence gloomy and melancholy forebodings. This may be all sophistry--as much of our better reasoning on things we know nothing about often is--but if it be true, then may I trust to account for my present sadness."

  "Have you really, then, sad forebodings?" inquired Ella, quickly and earnestly.

  "Against my will and sober reason, dear Ella, I must own I have. Perchance, however, the feeling was o nly called up by a train of melancholy meditations. While sitting there to-night, gazing upon the many bounding forms--some full of beauty and grace, and some of strength--noting their joyous faces, and listening occasionally to the lightsome jest, and merry, ringing laugh--I could not avoid contrasting with the present the time when I was as happy and full full of mirth as they. I pictured to myself how they would stare and shudder and draw away from me, did they know my hand was stained with the blood of my own kin. Then I began, involuntarily as it were, to picture to myself the fate of each; and they came up before me in the form of a vision, (though if such, it was a waking one) but in regular order; and I saw them pass on one after another--some gliding smoothly down the stream of time to old age--some wretched and crippled, groping their way along over barren wastes, without water or food, though nearly dying for the want of both--some wading through streams of blood, with fierce and angry looks--and some with pale faces, red eyes, and hollow cheeks, roving amid coffins, sepulchres and bones; but of all, the very fewest number happy."

  "Oh! it was an awful vision!" exclaimed Ella, with a shudder.

  "It was awful enough," rejoined Algernon; "and despite of me, it made me more and more sad as I thought upon it. Could it indeed be a dream? But no! I was--seemingly at least--as wide awake and conscious as at the present moment. I saw the dance going on as ever--I saw the merry smiles, and heard the jest and laugh as before. Could it be some strange hallucination of the brain--some wild imagining--caused by my previous exercise and over heat? I pondered upon it long and seriously, but could not determine. Suddenly--I know not how nor why--that ill-looking stranger who lodged one night at your uncle's, and departed so mysteriously, came up in my mind; and almost at the same moment, I fancied myself riding with you, dear Ella, through a dark and lonely wood--when all of a sudden there came a fierce yell--several dark, hideous forms, with him among them, swam around me--I heard you shriek for aid--and then all became darkness and confusion; from which I was aroused by some one inquiring if I were ill? What I answered I know not; but the querist immediately took his leave."

  "It all seems very strange, Algernon," observed Ella, thoughtfully; "but it was probably nothing more than a feverish dream, brought about by your exercise acting too suddenly and powerfully upon your nervous system, which doubtless has not as yet recovered from the prostration caused by your wound."

  "So I tried to think, dear Ella," returned Algernon, with a sigh; "but I have not even yet been able to shake off the gloomy impression, that, whatever the cause, it was sent as a warning of danger. But I am foolish, perhaps, to think as I do; and so let us change the subject. You spoke a few moments since of destiny. You said, if I mistake not, you believed each individual capable of shaping his own."

  "I did," answered Ella; "with the exception, that I qualified it by saying in a measure. No person, I think, has the power of moulding himself to an end which is contrary to the law of nature and his own physical organization; but at the same time he has many ways, some good and some evil, left open for him to choose; else he were not a free agent."

  "Ay," rejoined Algernon, "by-paths all to the same great end. I look upon every one here, Ella, as a traveler placed upon the great highway called destiny--with a secret power within that impels him forward, but allows no pause nor retrograde. Along this highway are flowers, and briars, and thistles, and weeds, and shady woods, and barren rocks, and sterile bluffs, and glassy plots; but proportioned differently to each, as the Maker of all designs his path to be pleasant or otherwise. Beside this highway are perhaps a dozen minor paths, all running a similar course, and all finally merging into it--either near or far, as the case may be--before its termination at the great gate of death. The free agency you speak of, is in choosing of these lesser paths--some of which are full of the snares of temptation, the chasms of ruin, and the pitfalls of destruction; and some of the flowers of peace, the bowers of plenty, and the green woods of contentment. But how to follow the proper one is the difficulty; for they run into one another--cross and recross in a thousand different ways--so that the best disposed as often hit the wrong as the right one, and are entrapped before they are aware of their dangerous course. Worldly wisdom is here put at fault, and the fool as often goes right as the wise man of lore--thus showing, notwithstanding our free agency, that circumstances govern us; and that what many put down as crime, is, in fact, oftentimes, neither more nor less than error of judgment."

  "Then you consider free agency only a chance game, depending, as it were, upon the throw of a die?" observed Ella, inquiringly.

  "I believe this much of free agency, that a train of circumstances often forces some to evil and others to good; and that we should look upon the former, in many cases--mind I do not say all--as unfortunate rather than criminal--with pity rather than scorn; and so endeavor to reclaim them. Were this doctrine more practiced by Christians--by those whom the world terms good, (but whom circumstances alone have made better than their fellows,) there would be far less of sin, misery, and crime abounding for them to deplore. Let the creed of churches only be to ameliorate the condition of the poor, relieve the distressed, remove temptations from youth, encourage the virtuous, and endeavor, by gently means, to reclaim the erring--and the holy design of Him who died to save would nobly progress, prisons would be turned into asylums, and scaffolds be things known only by tradition."

  Algernon spoke with an easy, earnest eloquence, and a force of emphasis, that made each word tell with proper effect upon his fair hearer. To Ella the ideas he advanced were, many of them, entirely new; and she mused thoughtfully upon them, as they rode along, without reply; while he, becoming warm upon a subject that evidently occupied no inferior place in his mind, went on to speak of the wrongs and abuses which society in general heaped upon the unfortunate, as he termed them--contrasted the charity of professing Christians of the eighteenth century with tha
t of Christ himself--and pointed out what he considered the most effectual means of remedy. To show that a train of circumstances would frequently force persons against their own will and reason to be what society terms criminal, he referred to himself, and his own so far eventful destiny; and Ella could not but admit to herself, that, in his case at least, his arguments were well grounded, and she shaped her replies accordingly.

  Thus conversing, they continued upon their course, until they came to the brow of a steep descent, down which the path ran in a zigzag manner, through a dark, gloomy ravine, now rendered intensely so to our travelers, by the hour, their thoughts, the wildness of the scenery around, and the dense growth of cedars covering the hollow, whose untrimmed branches, growing even to the ground, overreached and partly obstructed their way. By this time only one or two stars were visible in the heavens; and they shone with pale, faint gleams; while in the east the beautiful gray and crimson tints of Aurora announced that day was already breaking on the slumbering world. Drawing rein, Algernon and Ella paused as if to contemplate the scene. Below and around them each object presented that misty, indistinct appearance, which leaves the imagination power to give it either a pleasing or hideous shape. In the immediate vicinity, the country was uneven; rocky, and covered with cedars; but far off to the right could be discerned the even surface of the cane-brake, previously mentioned, now stretching away in the distance like the unruffled bosom of some beautiful lake. A light breeze slightly rustled the leaves of the trees, among whose branches an occasional songster piped forth his morning lay of rejoicing.

  "How lovely is nature in all her varieties!" exclaimed Ella, with animation, as she glanced over the scene.

  "Ay, and in that variety lies her loveliness," answered Algernon. "It is the constant and eternal change going forward that interests us, and gives to nature her undying charm. Man--high-souled, contemplative man--was not born to sameness. Variety is to his mind what food is to his body; and as the latter, deprived of its usual nourishment, sinks to decay--so the former, from like deprivation of its strengthening power, becomes weak and imbecile. Again: as coarse, plain food and hardy exercise add health and vigor to the physical--so does the contemplation of nature in her wildness and grandeur give to the mental a powerful and lofty tone. Of all writers for poetical and vigorous intellects, give me those who have been reared among cloud-capped hills, and craggy steeps, and rushing streams, and roaring cataracts; for their conceptions are grand, their comparisons beautiful, and the founts from which they draw, as exhaustless almost as nature herself."

  "I have often thought the same myself," returned Ella; "for I never gaze upon a beautiful scene in nature, that I do not feel refreshed. To me the two most delightful are morning and evening. I love to stand upon some eminence, and mark, as now, the first gray, crimson and golden streaks that rush up in the eastern sky; and catch the first rays of old Sol, as he, surrounded by a reddened halo, shows his welcome face above the hills; or at calm eve watch his departure, as with a last, fond, lingering look he takes his leave, as 'twere in sor row that he could not longer tarry; while earth, not thus to be outdone in point of grief, puts on her sable dress to mourn his absence."

  "Ah! Ella," said Algernon, turning to her with a gentle smile, "methinks morning and evening are somewhat indebted to you for a touch of poetry in their behalf."

  "Rather say I am indebted to them for a thousand fine feelings I have not even power to express," rejoined Ella.

  Algernon was on the point of returning an answer, when, casting his eyes down into the ravine, he slightly started, his gaze became fixed, and his features grew a shade more pale. Ella noticed this sudden change, and in a voice slightly tremulous inquired the cause. For nearly a minute Algernon made no reply, but kept his eyes steadily bent in the same direction, apparently riveted on some object below. Ella also looked down; but seeing nothing worthy of note, and growing somewhat alarmed at his silence, was on the point of addressing him again, when, slightly turning his head, and rubbing his eyes with his hand, he said:

  "Methought I saw a dark object move in the hollow below; but I think I must have been mistaken, for all appears quiet there now--not even a limb or so much as a leaf stirs. Lest there should be danger, however, dear Ella, I will ride down first and ascertain. If I give an alarm, turn your horse and do not spare him till you reach Wilson's."

  "No, no, no!" exclaimed Ella, with vehemence, laying her hand upon his arm, as he was about starting forward, her own features now growing very pale. "If you go, Algernon, you go not alone! If there is danger, I will share it with you."

  Algernon turned towards her a face that, one moment crimsoned with animation and the next became deadly pale; while his whole frame quivered with intense emotion, and he seemed vainly struggling to command contending feelings. Suddenly clasping her hand in his, he pressed it warmly, raised it to his lips, and in a trembling tone said:

  "Ella--dear Ella--God bless you! If ever--but--no--no--no;" and covering his face with his hands, he wept convulsively; while she, no less deeply affected, could scarcely sit her horse.

  At length Algernon withdrew his hands, and exhibited features pale but calm. Drawing forth his pistols, he carefully examined their priming, and then replaced them in his belt. During this proceeding, he failed not to urge Ella to alter her design and remain, while he went forward; but finding her determined on keeping him company, he signified his readiness to proceed, and both started slowly down the hill together. They reached the ravine in safety, and advanced some twenty yards further, when suddenly there arose a terrific Indian yell, followed instantly by the sharp report of several fire-arms, a wild, piercing shriek, some two or three heavy groans, a rustling among the trees, and then by a stillness as deep and awfully solemn as that which pervades the narrow house appointed for all living.

  CHAPTER VII.

  THE OLD WOODSMAN AND HIS DOG.

  The sun was perhaps an hour above the mountain tops, when a solitary hunter, in the direction of the cane-brake, might have been seen shaping his course toward the hill whereon Algernon and Ella had so lately paused to contemplate the dawning day. Upon his shoulder rested a long rifle, and a dog of the Newfoundland species followed in his steps or trotted along by his side. In a few minutes he reached the place referred to; when the snuffling of his canine companion causing him to look down, his attention instantly became fixed upon the foot-prints of the horses which had passed there the day before, and particularly on the two that had repassed there so lately.

  "What is it, Caesar?" said he, addressing the brute. "Nothing wrong here, I reckon." Caesar, as if conscious of his master's language, raised his head, and looking down into the ravine, appeared to snuff the air; then darting forward, he was quickly lost among the branching cedars. Scarcely thirty seconds elapsed, ere a long, low howl came up from the valley; and starting like one suddenly surprised by some disagreeable occurrence, the hunter, with a cheek slightly blanched, hurried down the crooked path, muttering as he went, "Thar's something wrong, for sartin--for Caesar never lies."

  In less than a minute the hunter came in sight of his dog, which he found standing with his hind feet on the ground and his fore-paws resting on the carcass of a horse, that had apparently been dead but a short time. As Caesar perceived his master approach, he uttered another of those peculiar, long, low, mournful howls, which the superstitious not unfrequently interpret as omens of evil.

  "Good heavens!" exclaimed the hunter, as he came up; "thar's been foul play here, Caesar--foul play, for sartin. D'ye think, dog, it war Indians as done it?"

  The brute looked up into the speaker's face, with one of those expressions of intelligence or sagacity, which seem to speak what the tongue has not power to utter, and then wagging his tail, gave a sharp, fierce bark.

  "Right, dog!" continued the other, as, stooping to the ground, he began to examine with great care the prints left there by human feet. "Right, dog, they're the rale varmints, and no mistake. Ef all folks war as sensible
and knowing as you, thar would'nt be many fools about, I reckon."

  Having finished his examination of the ground, the hunter again turned to look at the carcass of the horse, which was lying on its left side, some two feet from the path, and had apparently fallen dead from a shot in the forehead, between the eyes. An old saddle, devoid of straps, lay just concealed under the branching cedars. The ground around was trodden as if from a scuffle, and the limbs of the trees were broken in many places--while in two or three others could be seen spots of blood, not even yet dry--none of which informants of the recent struggle escaped the keen observation of the woodsman. Suddenly the dog, which had been watching his master's motions intently, put his nose to the ground, darted along the path further into the ravine, and presently resounded another of those mournful howls.

  "Ha! another diskivery!" exclaimed the hunter, as he started after his companion.

  About thirty yards further on, he came upon the carcass of another horse, which had been killed by a ball in the right side, and the blow of some weapon, probably a tomahawk, on the head. By its side also lay a lady's saddle, stripped like the former of its trappings. This the woodsman now proceeded to examine attentively, for something like a minute, during which time a troubled expression rested on his dark, sunburnt features.

  "I'm either mightily mistaken," said he at length, with a grave look, "or that thar horse and saddle is the property of Ben Younker; and I reckon it's the same critter as is rid by Ella Barnwell. Heaven forbid, sweet lady, that it be thou as met with this terrible misfortune!--but ef it be, by the Power that made me, I swar to follow on thy trail; and ef I meet any of thy captors, then, Betsey, I'll just call on you for a backwoods sentiment."