Chapter 4

Hail! sober evening! Thee the harass'd brain
And aching heart with fond orisons greet;
The respite thou of toil; the balm of pain;
To thoughtful mind the hour for musing meet,
'Tis then the sage from forth his lone retreat,
The rolling universe around espies;
'Tis then the bard may hold communion sweet
With lovely shapes unkenned by grosser eyes,
And quick perception comes of finer mysteries.

Sands.

In the preceding chapter we closed the minuter narrative with a scene
at the Hut, in the spring of 1765. We must now advance the time just
ten years, opening, anew, in the month of May, 1775. This, it is
scarcely necessary to tell the reader, is bringing him at once up to
the earliest days of the revolution. The contest which preceded that
great event had in fact occurred in the intervening time, and we are
now about to plunge into the current of some of the minor incidents of
the struggle itself.

Ten years are a century in the history of a perfectly new settlement.
The changes they produce are even surprising, though in ordinary cases
they do not suffice to erase the signs of a recent origin. The forest
is opened, and the light of day admitted, it is true; but its remains
are still to be seen in multitudes of unsightly stumps, dead standing
trees, and ill-looking stubs. These vestiges of the savage state
usually remain a quarter of a century; in certain region they are to be
found for even more than twice that period. All this, however, had
captain Willoughby escaped, in consequence of limiting his clearing, in
a great measure, to that which had been made by the beavers, and from
which time and natural decay had, long before his arrival, removed
every ungainly object. It is true, here and there a few acres had been
cleared on the firmer ground, at the margin of the flats, where barns
and farm buildings had been built, and orchards planted; but, in order
to preserve the harmony of his view, the captain had caused all the
stumps to be pulled and burnt, giving to these places the same air of
agricultural finish as characterized the fields on the lower land.

To this sylvan scene, at a moment which preceded the setting of the sun
by a little more than an hour, and in the first week of the genial
month of May, we must now bring the reader in fancy. The season had
been early, and the Beaver Manor, or the part of it which was
cultivated, lying low and sheltered, vegetation had advanced
considerably beyond the point that is usual, at that date, in the
elevated region of which we have been writing. The meadows were green
with matted grasses, the wheat and rye resembled rich velvets, and the
ploughed fields had the fresh and mellowed appearance of good husbandry
and a rich soil. The shrubbery, of which the captain's English taste
had introduced quantities, was already in leaf, and even portions of
the forest began to veil their sombre mysteries with the delicate
foliage of an American spring.

The site of the ancient pond was a miracle of rustic beauty. Everything
like inequality or imperfection had disappeared, the whole presenting a
broad and picturesquely shaped basin, with outlines fashioned
principally by nature, an artist that rarely fails in effect. The flat
was divided into fields by low post-and-rail fences, the captain making
it a law to banish all unruly animals from his estate. The barns and
out-buildings were neatly made and judiciously placed, and the three or
four roads, or lanes, that led to them, crossed the low-land in such
graceful curves, as greatly to increase the beauty of the landscape.
Here and there a log cabin was visible, nearly buried in the forest,
with a few necessary and neat appliances around it; the homes of
labourers who had long dwelt in them, and who seemed content to pass
their lives in the same place. As most of these men had married and
become fathers, the whole colony, including children, notwithstanding
the captain's policy not to settle, had grown to considerably more than
a hundred souls, of whom three-and-twenty were able-bodied men. Among
the latter were the millers; but, their mills were buried in the ravine
where they had been first placed, quite out of sight from the picture
above, concealing all the unavoidable and ungainly-looking objects of a
saw-mill yard.

As a matter of course, the object of the greatest interest, as it was
the most conspicuous, was the Hutted Knoll, as the house was now
altogether called, and the objects it contained. Thither, then, we will
now direct our attention, and describe things as they appeared ten
years after they were first presented to the reader.

The same agricultural finish as prevailed on the flats pervaded every
object on the Knoll, though some labour had been expended to produce
it. Everything like a visible rock, the face of the cliff on the
northern end excepted, had disappeared, the stones having been blasted,
and either worked into walls for foundations, or walls for fence. The
entire base of the Knoll, always excepting the little precipice at the
rivulet, was encircled by one of the latter, erected under the
superintendence of Jamie Allen, who still remained at the Hut, a
bachelor, and as he said himself, a happy man. The southern-face of the
Knoll was converted into lawn, there being quite two acres intersected
with walks, and well garnished with shrubbery. What was unusual in
America, at that day, the captain, owing to his English education, had
avoided straight lines, and formal paths; giving to the little spot the
improvement on nature which is a consequence of embellishing her works
without destroying them. On each side of this lawn was an orchard,
thrifty and young, and which were already beginning to show signs of
putting forth their blossoms.

About the Hut itself, the appearance of change was not so manifest.
Captain Willoughby had caused it to be constructed originally, as he
intended to preserve it, and if formed no part of his plan to cover it
with tawdry colours. There it stood, brown above, and grey beneath, as
wood or stone was the material, with a widely projecting roof. It had
no piazzas, or stoups, and was still without external windows, one
range excepted. The loops had been cut, but it was more for the benefit
of lighting the garrets, than for any other reason, all of them being
glazed, and serving the end for which they had been pierced. The gates
remained precisely in the situation in which they were, when last
presented to the eye of the reader! There they stood, each leaning
against the wall on its own side of the gateway, the hinges beginning
to rust, by time and exposure. Ten years had not produced a day of
sufficient leisure in which to hang them: though Mrs. Willoughby
frequently spoke of the necessity of doing so, in the course of the
first summer. Even she had got to be so familiarized to her situation,
and so accustomed to seeing the leaves where they stood, that she now
regarded them as a couple of sleeping lions in stone, or as
characteristic ornaments, rather than as substantial defences to the
entrance of the dwelling.

The interior of the Hut, however, had undergone many alterations. The
western half had been completed, and handsome rooms had been fitted up
for guests and inmates of the family, in the portion of the edifice
occupied by the latter. Additional comforts had been introduced, and,
the garners, cribs and lodgings of the labourers having been
transferred to the skirts of the forest, the house was more strictly
and exclusively the abode of a respectable and well-regulated family.
In the rear, too, a wing had been thrown along the verge of the cliff,
completely enclosing the court. This wing, which overhung the rivulet,
and had, not only a most picturesque site, but a most picturesque and
lovely view, now contained the library, parlour and music-room,
together with other apartments devoted to the uses of the ladies,
during the day; the old portions of the house that had once been
similarly occupied being now converted into sleeping apartments. The
new wing was constructed entirely of massive squared logs, so as to
render it bullet-proof, here being no necessity for a stone foundation,
standing, as it did, on the verge of a cliff some forty feet in height.
This was the part of the edifice which had external windows, the
elevation removing it from the danger of inroads, or hostile shot,
while the air and view were both grateful and desirable. Some extra
attention had been paid to the appearance of the meadows on this side
of the Knoll, and the captain had studiously kept their skirts, as far
as the eye could see from the windows, in virgin forest; placing the
barns, cabins, and other detached buildings, so far south as to be
removed from view. Beulah Willoughby, a gentle, tranquil creature, had
a profound admiration of the beauties of nature; and to her, her
parents had yielded the control of everything that was considered
accessary to the mere charms of the eye; her taste had directed most of
that which had not been effected by the noble luxuriance of nature.
Wild roses were already putting forth their leaves in various fissures
of the rocks, where earth had been placed for their support, and the
margin of the little stream, that actually washed the base of the
cliff, winding off in a charming sweep through the meadows, a rivulet
of less than twenty feet in width, was garnished with willows and
alder. Quitting this sylvan spot, we will return to the little shrub-
adorned area in front of the Hut. This spot the captain called his
_glacis_, while his daughters termed it the lawn. The hour, it will
be remembered, was shortly before sunset, and thither nearly all the
family had repaired to breathe the freshness of the pure air, and bathe
in the genial warmth of a season, which is ever so grateful to those
who have recently escaped from the rigour of a stern winter. Rude, and
sufficiently picturesque garden-seats, were scattered about, and on one
of these were seated the captain and his wife; he, with his hair
sprinkled with grey, a hale, athletic, healthy man of sixty, and she a
fresh-looking, mild-featured, and still handsome matron of forty-eight.
In front, stood a venerable-looking personage, of small stature,
dressed in rusty black, of the cut that denoted the attire of a
clergyman, before it was considered aristocratic to wear the outward
symbols of belonging to the church of God. This was the Rev. Jedidiah
Woods, a native of New England, who had long served as a chaplain in
the same regiment with the captain, and who, being a bachelor, on
retired pay, had dwelt with his old messmate for the last eight years,
in the double capacity of one who exercised the healing art as well for
the soul as for the body. To his other offices, he added that of an
instructor, in various branches of knowledge, to the young people. The
chaplain, for so he was called by everybody in and around the Hut, was,
at the moment of which we are writing, busy in expounding to his
friends certain nice distinctions that existed, or which he fancied to
exist, between a tom-cod and a chub, the former of which fish he very
erroneously conceived he held in his hand at that moment; the Rev. Mr.
Woods being a much better angler than naturalist. To his dissertation
Mrs. Willoughby listened with great good-nature, endeavouring all the
while to feel interested; while her husband kept uttering his "by all
means," "yes," "certainly," "you're quite right, Woods," his gaze, at
the same time, fastened on Joel Strides, and Pliny the elder, who were
unharnessing their teams, on the flats beneath, having just finished a
"land," and deeming it too late to commence another.

Beulah, her pretty face shaded by a large sun-bonnet, was
superintending the labours of Jamie Allen, who, finding nothing just
then to do as a mason, was acting in the capacity of gardener; his hat
was thrown upon the grass, with his white locks bare, and he was
delving about some shrubs with the intention of giving them the benefit
of a fresh dressing of manure. Maud, however, without a hat of any
sort, her long, luxuriant, silken, golden tresses covering her
shoulders, and occasionally veiling her warm, rich cheek, was
exercising with a battledore, keeping Little Smash, now increased in
size to quite fourteen stone, rather actively employed as an assistant,
whenever the exuberance of her own spirits caused her to throw the
plaything beyond her reach. In one of the orchards, near by, two men
were employed trimming the trees. To these the captain next turned all
his attention, just as he had encouraged the chaplain to persevere, by
exclaiming, "out of all question, my dear sir"--though he was
absolutely ignorant that the other had just advanced a downright
scientific heresy. At this critical moment a cry from Little Smash,
that almost equalled a downfall of crockery in its clamour, drew every
eye in her direction.

"What is the matter, Desdemona?" asked the chaplain, a little tartly,
by no means pleased at having his natural history startled by sounds so
inapplicable to the subject. "How often have I told you that the Lord
views with displeasure anything so violent and improper as your
outcries?"

"Can't help him, dominie--nebber can help him, when he take me sudden.
See, masser, dere come Ole Nick!"

There was Nick, sure enough. For the first time, in more than two
years, the Tuscarora was seen approaching the house, on the long,
loping trot that he affected when he wished to seem busy, or honestly
earning his money. He was advancing by the only road that was ever
travelled by the stranger as he approached the Hut; or, he came up the
valley. As the woman spoke, he had just made his appearance over the
rocks, in the direction of the mills. At that distance, quite half a
mile, he would not have been recognised, but for this gait, which was
too familiar to all at the Knoll, however, to be mistaken.

"That is Nick, sure enough!" exclaimed the captain. "The fellow comes
at the pace of a runner; or, as if he were the bearer of some important
news!"

"The tricks of Saucy Nick are too well known to deceive any here,"
observed Mrs. Willoughby, who, surrounded by her husband and children,
always felt so happy as to deprecate every appearance of danger.

"These savages will keep that pace for hours at a time," observed the
chaplain; "a circumstance that has induced some naturalists to fancy a
difference in the species, if not in the genus."

"Is he chub or tom-cod, Woods?" asked the captain, throwing back on the
other all he recollected of the previous discourse.

"Nay," observed Mrs. Willoughby, anxiously, "I _do_ think he may
have some intelligence! It is now more than a twelvemonth since we have
seen Nick."

"It is more than twice twelvemonth, my dear; I have not seen the
fellow's face since I denied him the keg of rum for his 'discovery' of
another beaver pond. He has tried to sell me a new pond every season
since the purchase of this."

"Do you think he took serious offence, Hugh, at that refusal? If so,
would it not be better to give him what he asks?"

"I have thought little about it, and care less, my dear. Nick and I
know each other pretty well. It is an acquaintance of thirty years'
standing, and one that has endured trials by flood and field, and even
by the horse-whip. No less than three times have I been obliged to make
these salutary applications to Nick's back, with my own hands; though
it is, now, more than ten years since a blow has passed between us."

"Does a savage ever forgive a blow?" asked the chaplain, with a grave
air, and a look of surprise.

"I fancy a _savage_ is quite as apt to forgive it, as a
_civilized_ man, Woods. To you, who have served so long in His
Majesty's army, a blow, in the way of punishment, can be no great
novelty."

"Certainly not, as respects the soldiers; but I did not know Indians
were ever flogged."

"That is because you never happened to be present at the ceremony--but,
this is Nick, sure enough; and by his trot I begin to think the fellow
has some message, or news."

"How old is the man, captain? Does an Indian never break down?"

"Nick must be fairly fifty, now. I have known him more than half that
period, and he was an experienced, and, to own the truth, a brave and
skilful warrior, when we first met. I rate him fifty, every day of it."

By this time the new-comer was so near, that the conversation ceased,
all standing gazing at him, as he drew near, and Maud gathering up her
hair, with maiden bashfulness, though certainly Nick was no stranger.
As for Little Smash, she waddled off to proclaim the news to the
younger Pliny, Mari, and Great Smash, all of whom were still in the
kitchen of the Hut, flourishing, sleek and glistening.

Soon after, Nick arrived. He came up the Knoll on his loping trot,
never stopping until he was within five or six yards of the Captain,
when he suddenly halted, folded his arms, and stood in a composed
attitude, lest he should betray a womanish desire to tell his story. He
did not even pant but appeared as composed and unmoved, as if he had
walked the half-mile he had been seen to pass over on a trot.

"Sago--Sago," cried the captain, heartily--"you are welcome back, Nick;
I am glad to see you still so active."

"Sago"--answered the guttural voice of the Indian, who quietly nodded
his head.

"What will you have to refresh you, after such a journey, Nick--our
trees give us good cider, now."

"Santa Cruz better,"--rejoined the sententious Tuscarora.

"Santa Cruz is certainly _stronger_" answered the captain
laughing, "and, in that sense, you may find it better. You shall have a
glass, as soon as we go to the house. What news do you bring, that you
come in so fast?"

"Glass won't do. Nick bring news worth _jug_. Squaw give _two_
jug for Nick's news. Is it barg'in?"

"I!" cried Mrs. Willoughby--"what concern can I have with your news. My
daughters are both with me, and Heaven be praised! both are well. What
_can_ I care for your news, Nick?"

"Got no pap-poose but gal? T'ink you got boy--officer--great chief--up
here, down yonder--over dere."

"Robert!--Major Willoughby! What can _you_ have to tell me of my
son?"

"Tell all about him, for _one_ jug. Jug out yonder; Nick's story
out here. One good as t'other."

"You shall have all you ask, Nick."--These were not temperance days,
when conscience took so firm a stand between the bottle and the
lips.--"You shall have all you ask, Nick, provided you can really give
me good accounts of my noble boy. Speak, then; what have you to say?"

"Say you see him in ten, five minute. Sent Nick before to keep moder
from too much cry."

An exclamation from Maud followed; then the ardent girl was seen
rushing down the lawn, her hat thrown aside; and her bright fair hair
again flowing in ringlets on her shoulders. She flew rather than ran,
in the direction of the mill, where the figure of Robert Willoughby was
seen rushing forward to meet her. Suddenly the girl stopped, threw
herself on a log, and hid her face. In a few minutes she was locked in
her brother's arms. Neither Mrs. Willoughby nor Beulah imitated this
impetuous movement on the part of Maud; but the captain, chaplain, and
even Jamie Allen, hastened down the road to meet and welcome the young
major. Ten minutes later, Bob Willoughby was folded to his mother's
heart; then came Beulah's turn; after which, the news having flown
through the household, the young man had to receive the greetings of
_Mari'_, both the Smashes, the younger Pliny, and all the dogs. A
tumultuous quarter of an hour brought all round, again, to its proper
place, and restored something like order to the Knoll. Still an
excitement prevailed the rest of the day, for the sudden arrival of a
guest always produced a sensation in that retired settlement; much more
likely, then, was the unexpected appearance of the only son and heir to
create one. As everybody bustled and was in motion, the whole family
was in the parlour, and major Willoughby was receiving the grateful
refreshment of a delicious cup of tea, before the sun set. The chaplain
would have retired out of delicacy, but to this the captain would not
listen; he would have everything proceed as if the son were a customary
guest, though it might have been seen by the manner in which his
mother's affectionate eye was fastened on his handsome face, as well as
that in which his sister Beulah, in particular, hung about him, under
the pretence of supplying his wants, that the young man was anything
but an every-day inmate.

"How the lad has grown!" said the captain, tears of pride starting into
his eyes, in spite of a very manful resolution to appear composed and
soldier-like.

"I was about to remark that myself, captain," observed the chaplain. "I
do think Mr. Robert has got to his full six feet--every inch as tall as
you are yourself, my good sir."

"That is he, Woods--and taller in one sense. He is a major, already, at
twenty-seven; it is a step I was not able to reach at near twice the
age."

"That is owing, my dear sir," answered the son quickly, and with a
slight tremor in his voice, "to your not having as kind a father as has
fallen to my share--or at least one not as well provided with the means
of purchasing."

"Say none at all, Bob, and you can wound no feeling, while you will
tell the truth. _My_ father died a lieutenant-colonel when I was a
school-boy; I owed my ensigncy to my uncle Sir Hugh, the father of the
present Sir Harry Willoughby; after that I owed each step to hard and
long service. Your mother's legacies have helped you along, at a faster
rate, though I do trust there has been some merit to aid in the
preferment."

"Speaking of Sir Harry Willoughby, sir, reminds me of one part of my
errand to the Hut," said the major, glancing his eye towards his
father, as if to prepare him for some unexpected intelligence.

"What of my cousin?" demanded the captain, calmly. "We have not met in
thirty years, and are the next thing to strangers to each other. Has he
made that silly match of which I heard something when last in York? Has
he disinherited his daughter as he threatened? Use no reserve here; our
friend Woods is one of the family."

"Sir Harry Willoughby is not married, sir, but dead."

"Dead!" repeated the captain, setting down his cup, like one who
received a sudden shock. "I hope not without having been reconciled to
his daughter, and providing for her large family?"

"He died in her arms, and escaped the consequences of his silly
intention to marry his own housekeeper. With one material exception, he
has left Mrs. Bowater his whole fortune."

The captain sat thoughtful, for some time; every one else being silent
and attentive. But the mother's feelings prompted her to inquire as to
the nature of the exception.

"Why, mother, contrary to all my expectations, and I may say wishes, he
has left _me_ twenty-five thousand pounds in the fives. I only
hold the money as my father's trustee."

"You do no such thing, Master Bob, I can tell you!" said the captain,
with emphasis.

The son looked at the father, a moment, as if to see whether he was
understood, and then he proceeded--

"I presume you remember, sir," said the major, "that _you_ are the
heir to the title?"

"I have not forgot that, major Willoughby; but what is an empty
baronetcy to a happy husband and father like me, here in the wilds of
America? Were I still in the army, and a colonel, the thing might be of
use; as I am, I would rather have a tolerable road from this place to
the Mohawk than the duchy of Norfolk, without the estate."

"Estate there is none, certainly," returned the major, in a tone of a
little disappointment, "except the twenty-five thousand pounds; unless
you include that which you possess where you are; not insignificant, by
the way, sir."

"It will do well enough for old Hugh Willoughby, late a captain in His
Majesty's 23d Regiment of Foot, but not so well for _Sir_ Hugh.
No, no, Bob. Let the baronetcy sleep awhile; it has been used quite
enough for the last hundred years or more. Out of this circle, there
are probably not ten persons in America, who know that I have any
claims to it."

The major coloured, and he played with the spoon of his empty cup,
stealing a glance or two around, before he answered.

"I beg your pardon, Sir Hugh--my dear father, I mean--but--to own the
truth, never anticipating such a decision on your part, I have spoken
of the thing to a good many friends--I dare say, if the truth were
known, I've called you the baronet, or Sir Hugh, to others, at least a
dozen times."

"Well, should it be so, the thing will be forgotten. A parson can be
unfrocked, Woods, and a baronet can be unbaroneted, I suppose."

"But, Sir William"--so everybody called the well-known Sir William
Johnson, in the colony of New York--"But, Sir William found it useful,
Willoughby, and so, I dare say, will his son and successor, Sir John,"
observed the attentive wife and anxious mother; "and if _you_ are
not now in the army, Bob is. It will be a good thing for our son one
day, and ought not to be lost."

"Ah, I see how it is, Beulah; your mother has no notion to lose the
right of being called Lady Willoughby."

"I am sure my mother, sir, wishes to be called nothing that does not
become _your_ wife; if you remain Mr. Hugh Willoughby, she will
remain Mrs. Hugh Willoughby. But papa, it _might_ be useful to
Bob."

Beulah was a great favourite with the captain, Maud being only his
darling; he listened always to whatever the former said, therefore,
with indulgence and respect. He often told the chaplain that his
daughter Beulah had the true feelings of her sex, possessing a sort of
instinct for whatever was right and becoming, in woman.

"Well, Bob may have the baronetcy, then," he said, smiling. "Major Sir
Robert Willoughby will not sound amiss in a despatch."

"But, Bob _cannot_ have it, father," exclaimed Maud--"No one _can_
have it but _you_; and it's a pity it should be lost."

"Let him wait, then, until I am out of the way; when he may claim his
own."

"_Can_ that be done?" inquired the mother, to whom nothing was
without interest that affected her children. "How is it, Mr. Woods?--
may a title be dropped, and then picked up again?--how is this,
Robert?"

"I believe it may, my dear mother--it will always exist, so long as
there is an heir, and my father's disrelish for it will not be binding
on me."

"Oh! in that case, then, all will come right in the end--though, as
your father does not want it, I wish you could have it, now."

This was said with the most satisfied air in the world, as if the
speaker had no possible interest in the matter herself, and it closed
the conversation, for that time. It was not easy to keep up an interest
in anything that related to the family, where Mrs. Willoughby was
concerned, in which heart did not predominate. A baronetcy was a
considerable dignity in the colony of New York in the year of our Lord,
1775, and it gave its possessor far more importance than it would have
done in England. In the whole colony there was but one, though a good
many were to be found further south; and he was known as "Sir John,"
as, in England, Lord Rockingham, or, in America, at a later day, La
Fayette, was known as "_The_ Marquis." Under such circumstances,
then, it would have been no trifling sacrifice to an ordinary woman to
forego the pleasure of being called "my lady." But the sacrifice cost
our matron no pain, no regrets, no thought even: The same attachments
which made her happy, away from the world, in the wilderness where she
dwelt, supplanted all other feelings, and left her no room, or leisure,
to think of such vanities. When the discourse changed, it was
understood that "Sir Hugh" was not to be "Sir Hugh," and that "Sir
Robert" must bide his time.

"Where did you fall in with the Tuscarora, Bob?" suddenly asked the
captain, as much to bring up another subject, as through curiosity.
"The fellow had been so long away, I began to think we should never see
him again.

"He tells me, sir, he has been on a war path, somewhere out among the
western savages. It seems these Indians fight among themselves, from
time to time, and Nick has been trying to keep his hand in. I found him
down at Canajoharie, and took him for a guide, though he had the
honesty to own he was on the point of coming over here, had I not
engaged him."

"I'll answer for it he didn't tell you _that_, until you had paid
him for the job."

"Why, to own the truth, he did not, sir. He pretended something about
owing money in the village, and got his pay in advance. I learned his
intentions only when we were within a few miles of the Hut."

"I'm glad to find, Bob, that you give the place its proper name. How
gloriously Sir Hugh Willoughby, Bart., of The _Hut_, Tryon county,
New York, would sound, Woods!--Did Nick boast of the scalps he has
taken from the Carthaginians?"

"He lays claim to three, I believe, though I have seen none of his
trophies."

"The Roman hero!--Yet, I have known Nick rather a dangerous warrior. He
was out against us, in some of my earliest service, and our
acquaintance was made by my saving his life from the bayonet of one of
my own grenadiers. I thought the fellow remembered the act for some
years; but, in the end, I believe I flogged all the gratitude out of
him. His motives, now, are concentrated in the little island of Santa
Cruz."

"Here he is, father," said Maud, stretching her light, flexible form
out of a window. "Mike and the Indian are seated at the lower spring,
with a jug between them, and appear to be in a deep conversation."

"Ay, I remember on their first acquaintance, that Mike mistook
_Saucy_ Nick, for _Old_ Nick. The Indian was indignant for a
while, at being mistaken for the Evil Spirit, but the worthies soon
found a bond of union between them, and, before six months, he and the
Irishman became sworn friends. It is said whenever two human beings
love a common principle, that it never fails to make them firm allies."

"And what was the principle, in this case, captain Willoughby?"
inquired the chaplain, with curiosity.

"Santa Cruz. Mike renounced whiskey altogether, after he came to
America, and took to rum. As for Nick, he was never so vulgar as to
find pleasure in the former liquor."

The whole party had gathered to the windows, while the discourse was
proceeding, and looking out, each individual saw Mike and his friend,
in the situation described by Maud. The two _amateurs_--
_connoisseurs_ would not be misapplied, either--had seated themselves
at the brink of a spring of delicious water, and removing the corn-cob
that Pliny the younger had felt it to be classical to affix to the
nozzle of a quart jug, had, some time before, commenced the delightful
recreation of sounding the depth, not of the spring, but of the vessel.
As respects the former, Mike, who was a wag in his way, had taken a
hint from a practice said to be common in Ireland, called "potatoe and
point," which means to eat the potatoe and point at the butter;
declaring that "rum and p'int" was every bit as entertaining as a
"p'int of rum." On this principle, then, with a broad grin on a face
that opened from ear to ear whenever he laughed, the county Leitrim-man
would gravely point his finger at the water, in a sort of mock-homage,
and follow up the movement with such a suck at the nozzle, as, aided by
the efforts of Nick, soon analyzed the upper half of the liquor that
had entered by that very passage. All this time, conversation did not
flag, and, as the parties grew warm, confidence increased, though
reason sensibly diminished. As a part of this discourse will have some
bearing on what is to follow, it may be in place to relate it, here.

"Ye're a jewel, ye be, _ould_ Nick, or _young_ Nick!" cried
Mike, in an ecstasy of friendship, just after he had completed his
first half-pint. "Ye're as wilcome at the Huts, as if ye owned thim,
and I love ye as I did my own brother, before I left the county
Leitrim--paice to his sowl!"

"He dead?" asked Nick, sententiously; for he had lived enough among the
pale-faces to have some notions of then theory about the soul.

"That's more than I know--but, living or dead, the man must have a
sowl, ye understand, Nicholas. A human crathure widout a sowl, is what
I call a heretick; and none of the O'Hearns ever came to _that_."

Nick was tolerably drunk, but by no means so far gone, that he had not
manners enough to make a grave, and somewhat dignified gesture; which
was as much as to say he was familiar with the subject.

"All go ole fashion here?" he asked, avoiding every appearance of
curiosity, however.

"That does it--that it does, Nicholas. All goes ould enough. The
captain begins to get ould; and the missus is oulder than she used to
be; and Joel's wife looks a hundred, though she isn't t'irty; and Joel,
himself, the spalpeen--he looks--" a gulp at the jug stopped the
communication.

"Dirty, too?" added the sententious Tuscarora, who did not comprehend
more than half his friend said.

"Ay, dir-r-ty--he's always _that_. He's a dirthy fellow, that
thinks his yankee charactur is above all other things."

Nick's countenance became illuminated with an expression nowise akin to
that produced by rum, and he fastened on his companion one of his fiery
gazes, which occasionally seemed to penetrate to the centre of the
object looked at.

"Why pale-face hate one anoder? Why Irishman don't love yankee?"

"Och! love the crathure, is it? You'd betther ask me to love a to'd"--
for so Michael would pronounce the word 'toad.' "What is there to love
about him, but skin and bone! I'd as soon love a skiliten. Yes--an
immortal skiliten."

Nick made another gesture, and then he endeavoured to reflect, like one
who had a grave business in contemplation. The Santa Cruz confused his
brain, but the Indian never entirely lost his presence of mind; or
never, at least, so long as he could either see or walk.

"Don't like him"--rejoined Nick. "Like anybody?"

"To be sure I does--I like the capt'in--och, _he_'s a jontleman--
and I likes the missus; she's a laddy--and I likes Miss Beuly, who's a
swate young woman--and then there's Miss Maud, who's the delight of my
eyes. Fegs, but isn't _she_ a crathure to relish!"

Mike spoke like a good honest fellow, as he was at the bottom, with all
his heart and soul. The Indian did not seem pleased, but he made no
answer.

"You've been in the wars then, Nick!" asked the Irishman, after a short
pause.

"Yes--Nick been chief ag'in--take scalps."

"Ach! That's a mighty ugly thrade! If you'd tell 'em that in Ireland,
they'd not think it a possibility."

"No like fight in Ireland, hah?"

"I'll not say that--no, I'll not say that; for many's the jollification
at which the fighting is the chafe amusement. But we likes
_thumping_ on the head--not _skinning_ it."

"That your fashion--my fashion take scalp. You thump; I skin--which
best?"

"Augh! skinnin' is a dreadthful operation; but shillaleh-work comes
nately and nat'rally. How many of these said scalps, now, may ye have
picked up, Nick, in yer last journey?"

"T'ree--all man and woman--no pappoose. One big enough make _two_;
so call him _four_."

"Oh! Divil burn ye, Nick; but there's a spice of your namesake in ye,
afther all. T'ree human crathures skinned, and you not satisfied, and
so ye'll chait a bit to make 'em four! D'ye never think, now, of yer
latther ind? D'ye never confess?"

"T'ink every day of _dat_. Hope to find more, before last day
come. Plenty scalp _here_; ha, Mike?"

This was said a little incautiously, perhaps, but it was said under a
strong native impulse. The Irishman, however, was never very logical or
clear-headed; and three gills of rum had, by no means, helped to purify
his brain. He heard the word "plenty," knew he was well fed and warmly
clad, and just now, that Santa Cruz so much abounded, the term seemed
peculiarly applicable.

"It's a plinthiful place it is, is this very manor. There's all sorts
of things in it that's wanted. There's food and raiment, and cattle,
and grain, and porkers, and praiching--yes, divil burn it, Nick, but
there's what _goes_ for praiching, though it's no more like what
_we_ calls praiching than yer'e like Miss Maud in comeliness, and
ye'll own, yourself, Nick, yer'e no beauty."

"Got handsome hair," said Nick, surlily--"How she look widout scalp?"

"The likes of her, is it! Who ever saw one of her beauthy without the
finest hair that ever was! What do you get for your scalps?--are they
of any use when you find 'em?"

"Bring plenty bye'm-by. Whole country glad to see him before long--den
beavers get pond ag'in."

"How's that--how's that, Indian? Baiver get pounded? There's no pound,
hereabouts, and baivers is not an animal to be shut up like a hog!"

Nick perceived that his friend was past argumentation, and as he
himself was approaching the state when the drunkard receives delight
from he knows not what, it is unnecessary to relate any more of the
dialogue. The jug was finished, each man very honestly drinking his
pint, and as naturally submitting to its consequences; and this so much
the more because the two were so engrossed with the rum that both
forgot to pay that attention to the spring that might have been
expected from its proximity.