CHAPTER 21.

“Speed! Malise, speed! such cause of haste
Thine active sinews never braced.  “—Scott.

The roads of Otsego, if we except the principal high ways, were, at
the early day of our tale, but little better than wood-paths.  The
high trees that were growing on the very verge of the wheel-tracks
excluded the sun’s rays, unless at meridian; and the slowness of the
evaporation, united with the rich mould of vegetable decomposition
that covered the whole country to the depth of several inches,
occasioned but an indifferent foundation for the footing of
travellers.  Added to these were the inequalities of a natural
surface, and the constant recurrence of enormous and slippery roots
that were laid bare by the removal of the light soil, together with
stumps of trees, to make a passage not only difficult but dangerous.
Yet the riders among these numerous obstructions, which were such as
would terrify an unpracticed eye, gave no demonstrations of uneasiness
as their horses toiled through the sloughs or trotted with uncertain
paces along the dark route.  In many places the marks on the trees
were the only indications of a road, with perhaps an occasional
remnant of a pine that, by being cut close to the earth, so as to
leave nothing visible but its base of roots, spreading for twenty feet
in every direction, was apparently placed there as a beacon to warn
the traveller that it was the centre of a highway.

Into one of these roads the active sheriff led the way, first striking
out of the foot-path, by which they had descended from the sugar-bush,
across a little bridge, formed of round logs laid loosely on sleepers
of pine, in which large openings of a formidable width were frequent.
The nag of Richard, when it reached one of these gaps, laid its nose
along the logs and stepped across the difficult passage with the
sagacity of a man; but the blooded filly which Miss Temple rode
disdained so humble a movement.  She made a step or two with an
unusual caution, and then, on reaching the broadest opening, obedient
to the curt and whip of her fearless mistress, she bounded across the
dangerous pass with the activity of a squirrel.

“Gently, gently, my child,” said Marmaduke, who was following in the
manner of Richard; “this is not a country for equestrian feats.  Much
prudence is requisite to journey through our rough paths with safety.
Thou mayst practise thy skill in horsemanship on the plains of New
Jersey with safety; but in the hills of Otsego they may be suspended
for a time.”

“I may as well then relinquish my saddle at once, dear sir,” returned
his daughter; “for if it is to be laid aside until this wild country
be improved, old age will overtake me, and put an end to what you term
my equestrian feats.”
“Say not so, my child,” returned her father; “but if thou venturest
again as in crossing this bridge, old age will never overtake thee,
but I shall be left to mourn thee, cut off in thy pride, my Elizabeth.
If thou hadst seen this district of country, as I did, when it lay in
the sleep of nature, and bad witnessed its rapid changes as it awoke
to supply the wants of man, thou wouldst curb thy impatience for a
little time, though thou shouldst not check thy steed.”

“I recollect hearing you speak of your first visit to these woods, but
the impression is faint, and blended with the confused images of
childhood.  Wild and unsettled as it may yet seem, it must have been a
thousand times more dreary then.  Will you repeat, dear sir, what you
then thought of your enterprise, and what you felt?”

During this speech of Elizabeth, which was uttered with the fervor of
affection, young Edwards rode more closely to the side of the Judge,
and bent his dark eyes on his countenance with an expression that
seemed to read his thoughts.

“Thou wast then young, my child, but must remember when I left thee
and thy mother, to take my first survey of these uninhabited
mountains,” said Marmaduke.  “But thou dost not feel all the secret
motives that can urge a man to endure privations in order to
accumulate wealth.  In my case they have not been trifling, and God
has been pleased to smile on my efforts.  If I have encountered pain,
famine, and disease in accomplishing the settlement of this rough
territory, I have not the misery of failure to add to the grievances.”

“Famine!” echoed Elizabeth; “I thought this was the land of abundance!
Had you famine to contend with?”

“Even so, my child,” said her father.  “Those who look around them
now, and see the loads of produce that issue out of every wild path in
these mountains during the season of travelling, will hardly credit
that no more than five years have elapsed since the tenants of these
woods were compelled to eat the scanty fruits of the forest to sustain
life, and, with their unpracticed skill, to hunt the beasts as food
for their starving families.”

“Ay!” cried Richard, who happened to overhear the last of this speech
between the notes of the wood-chopper’s song, which he was endeavoring
to breathe aloud; “that was the starving-time,* Cousin Bess.  I grew
as lank as a weasel that fall, and my face was as pale as one of your
fever-and-ague visages.  Monsieur Le Quoi, there, fell away like a
pumpkin in drying; nor do I think you have got fairly over it yet,
monsieur.  Benjamin, I thought, bore it with a worse grace than any of
the family; for he swore it was harder to endure than a short
allowance in the calm latitudes.  Benjamin is a sad fellow to swear if
you starve him ever so little.  I had half a mind to quit you then,
‘Duke, and to go into Pennsylvania to fatten; but, damn it, thinks I,
we are sisters’ children, and I will live or die with him, after all.”

  * The author has no better apology for interrupting the interest of a
    work of fiction by these desultory dialogues than that they have ref-
    erence to facts.  In reviewing his work, after so many years, he is
    compelled to confess it is injured by too many allusions to incidents
    that are not at all suited to satisfy the just expectations of the
    general reader.  One of these events is slightly touched on in the
    commencement of this chapter.

More than thirty years since a very near and dear relative of the
writer, an elder sister and a second mother, was killed by a fall from
a horse in a ride among the very mountains mentioned in this tale.
Few of her sex and years were more extensively known or more
universally beloved than the admirable woman who thus fell a victim to
the chances of the wilderness.
“I do not forget thy kindness,” said Marmaduke, “nor that we are of
one blood.”

“But, my dear father,” cried the wondering Elizabeth, “was there
actual suffering? Where were the beautiful and fertile vales of the
Mohawk? Could they not furnish food for your wants?”

“It was a season of scarcity; the necessities of life commanded a high
price in Europe, and were greedily sought after by the speculators.
The emigrants from the East to the West invariably passed along the
valley of the Mohawk, and swept away the means of subsistence like a
swarm of locusts, Nor were the people on the Flats in a much better
condition.  They were in want themselves, but they spared the little
excess of provisions that nature did not absolutely require, with the
justice of the German character.  There was no grinding of the poor.
The word speculator was then unknown to them.  I have seen many a
stout man, bending under the load of the bag of meal which he was
carrying from the mills of the Mohawk, through the rugged passes of
these mountains, to feed his half-famished children, with a heart so
light, as he approached his hut, that the thirty miles he had passed
seemed nothing.  Remember, my child, it was in our very infancy; we
had neither mills, nor grain, nor roads, nor often clearings; we had
nothing of increase but the mouths that were to be fed: for even at
that inauspicious moment the restless spirit of emigration was not
idle; nay, the general scarcity which extended to the East tended to
increase the number of adventurers.”

“And how, dearest father, didst thou encounter this dreadful evil?”
said Elizabeth, unconsciously adopting the dialect of her parent in
the warmth of her sympathy.  “Upon thee must have fallen the
responsibility, if not the suffering.”

“It did, Elizabeth,” returned the Judge, pausing for a single moment,
as if musing on his former feelings.  “ I had hundreds at that
dreadful time daily looking up to me for bread.  The sufferings of
their families and the gloomy prospect before them had paralyzed the
enterprise and efforts of my settlers; hunger drove them to the woods
for food, but despair sent them at night, enfeebled and wan, to a
sleepless pillow.  It was not a moment for in action.  I purchased
cargoes of wheat from the granaries of Pennsylvania; they were landed
at Albany and brought up the Mohawk in boats; from thence it was
transported on pack-horses into the wilderness and distributed among
my people.  Seines were made, and the lakes and rivers were dragged
for fish.  Something like a miracle was wrought in our favor, for
enormous shoals of herrings were discovered to have wandered five
hundred miles through the windings of the impetuous Susquehanna, and
the lake was alive with their numbers.  These were at length caught
and dealt out to the people, with proper portions of salt, and from
that moment we again began to prosper.” *

  * All this was literally true.

“Yes,” cried Richard, “and I was the man who served out the fish and
salt.  When the poor devils came to receive their rations, Benjamin,
who was my deputy, was obliged to keep them off by stretching ropes
around me, for they smelt so of garlic, from eating nothing but the
wild onion, that the fumes put me out often in my measurement.  You
were a child then, Bess, and knew nothing of the matter, for great
care was observed to keep both you and your mother from suffering.
That year put me back dreadfully, both in the breed of my hogs and of
my turkeys.”

“No, Bess,” cried the Judge, in a more cheerful tone, disregarding the
interruption of his cousin, “he who hears of the settlement of a
country knows but little of the toil and suffering by which it is
accomplished.  Unimproved and wild as this district now seems to your
eyes, what was it when I first entered the hills? I left my party, the
morning of my arrival, near the farms of the Cherry Valley, and,
following a deer-path, rode to the summit of the mountain that I have
since called Mount Vision; for the sight that there met my eyes seemed
to me as the deceptions of a dream.  The fire had run over the
pinnacle, and in a great measure laid open the view.  The leaves were
fallen, and I mounted a tree and sat for an hour looking on the silent
wilderness.  Not an opening was to be seen in the boundless forest
except where the lake lay, like a mirror of glass.  The water was
covered by myriads of the wild-fowl that migrate with the changes in
the season; and while in my situation on the branch of the beech, I
saw a bear, with her cubs, descend to the shore to drink.  I had met
many deer, gliding through the woods, in my journey ; but not the
vestige of a man could I trace during my progress, nor from my
elevated observatory.  No clearing, no hut, none of the winding roads
that are now to be seen, were there; nothing but mountains rising
behind mountains ; and the valley, with its surface of branches
enlivened here and there with the faded foliage of some tree that
parted from its leaves with more than ordinary reluctance.  Even the
Susquehanna was then hid by the height and density of the forest.”

“And were you alone?” asked Elizabeth: “passed you the night in that
solitary state?”

“Not so, my child,” returned the father.  “After musing on the scene
for an hour, with a mingled feeling of pleasure and desolation, I left
my perch and descended the mountain.  My horse was left to browse on
the twigs that grew within his reach, while I explored the shores of
the lake and the spot where Templeton stands.  A pine of more than
ordinary growth stood where my dwelling is now placed! A wind—row had
been opened through the trees from thence to the lake, and my view was
but little impeded.  Under the branches of that tree I made my
solitary dinner.  I had just finished my repast as I saw smoke curling
from under the mountain, near the eastern bank of the lake.  It was
the only indication of the vicinity of man that I had then seen.
After much toil I made my way to the spot, and found a rough cabin of
logs, built against the foot of a rock, and bearing the marks of a
tenant, though I found no one within it—”

“It was the hut of Leather-Stocking,” said Edwards quickly.

“It was; though I at first supposed it to be a habitation of the
Indians.  But while I was lingering around the spot Natty made his
appearance, staggering under the carcass of a buck that he bad slain.
Our acquaintance commenced at that time; before, I had never heard
that such a being tenanted the woods.  He launched his bark canoe and
set me across the foot of the lake to the place where I had fastened
my horse, and pointed out a spot where he might get a scanty browsing
until the morning; when I returned and passed the night in the cabin
of the hunter.”

Miss Temple was so much struck by the deep attention of young Edwards
during this speech that she forgot to resume her interrogations; but
the youth himself continued the discourse by asking:

“And how did the Leather-Stocking discharge the duties of a host sir?”

“Why, simply but kindly, until late in the evening, when he discovered
my name and object, and the cordiality of his manner very sensibly
diminished, or, I might better say, disappeared.  He considered the
introduction of the settlers as an innovation on his rights, I believe
for he expressed much dissatisfaction at the measure, though it was in
his confused and ambiguous manner.  I hardly understood his objections
myself, but supposed they referred chiefly to an interruption of the
hunting.”

“Had you then purchased the estate, or were you examining it with an
intent to buy?” asked Edwards, a little abruptly.

“It had been mine for several years.  It was with a view to People the
land that I visited the lake.  Natty treated me hospitably, but
coldly, I thought, after he learned the nature of my journey.  I slept
on his own bear—skin, however, and in the morning joined my surveyors
again.”

“Said he nothing of the Indian rights, sir? The Leather-Stocking is
much given to impeach the justice of the tenure by which the whites
hold the country.”

“I remember that he spoke of them, but I did not nearly comprehend
him, and may have forgotten what he said; for the Indian title was
extinguished so far back as the close of the old war, and if it had
not been at all, I hold under the patents of the Royal Governors,
confirmed by an act of our own State Legislature, and no court in the
country can affect my title.”
“Doubtless, sir, your title is both legal and equitable,” returned the
youth coldly, reining his horse back and remaining silent till the
subject was changed.

It was seldom Mr. Jones suffered any conversation to continue for a
great length of time without his participation.  It seems that he was
of the party that Judge Temple had designated as his surveyors; and he
embraced the opportunity of the pause that succeeded the retreat of
young Edwards to take up the discourse, and with a narration of their
further proceedings, after his own manner.  As it wanted, however, the
interest that had accompanied the description of the Judge, we must
decline the task of committing his sentences to paper.

They soon reached the point where the promised view was to be seen.
It was one of those picturesque and peculiar scenes that belong to the
Otsego, but which required the absence of the ice and the softness of
a summer’s landscape to be enjoyed in all its beauty.  Marmaduke had
early forewarned his daughter of the season, and of its effect on the
prospect; and after casting a cursory glance at its capabilities, the
party returned homeward, perfectly satisfied that its beauties would
repay them for the toil of a second ride at a more propitious season.

“The spring is the gloomy time of the American year,” said the Judge,
“and it is more peculiarly the case in these mountains.  The winter
seems to retreat to the fast nesses of the hills, as to the citadel of
its dominion, and is only expelled after a tedious siege, in which
either party, at times, would seem to be gaining the victory.”

“A very just and apposite figure, Judge Temple,” observed the sheriff;
“and the garrison under the command of Jack Frost make formidable
sorties—you understand what I mean by sorties, monsieur; sallies, in
English— and sometimes drive General Spring and his troops back again
into the low countries.”

“Yes sair,” returned the Frenchman, whose prominent eyes were watching
the precarious footsteps of the beast he rode, as it picked its
dangerous way among the roots of trees, holes, log bridges, and
sloughs that formed the aggregate of the highway.  “Je vous entends;
de low countrie is freeze up for half de year.”

The error of Mr. Le Quoi was not noticed by the sheriff; and the rest
of the party were yielding to the influence of the changeful season,
which was already teaching the equestrians that a continuance of its
mildness was not to be expected for any length of time.  Silence and
thoughtfulness succeeded the gayety and conversation that had
prevailed during the commencement of the ride, as clouds began to
gather about the heavens, apparently collecting from every quarter, in
quick motion, without the agency of a breath of air,

While riding over one of the cleared eminencies that occurred in their
route, the watchful eye of Judge Temple pointed out to his daughter
the approach of a tempest.  Flurries of snow already obscured the
mountain that formed the northern boundary of the lake, and the genial
sensation which had quickened the blood through their veins was
already succeeded by the deadening influence of an approaching
northwester.

All of the party were now busily engaged in making the best of their
way to the village, though the badness of the roads frequently
compelled them to check the impatience of their animals, which often
carried them over places that would not admit of any gait faster than
a walk.

Richard continued in advance, followed by Mr. Le Quoi; next to whom
rode Elizabeth, who seemed to have imbibed the distance which pervaded
the manner of young Edwards since the termination of the discourse
between the latter and her father.  Marmaduke followed his daughter,
giving her frequent and tender warnings as to the management of her
horse.  It was, possibly, the evident dependence that Louisa Grant
placed on his assistance which induced the youth to continue by her
side, as they pursued their way through a dreary and dark wood, where
the rays of the sun could but rarely penetrate, and where even the
daylight was obscured and rendered gloomy by the deep forests that
surrounded them.  No wind had yet reached the spot where the
equestrians were in motion, but that dead silence that often precedes
a storm contributed to render their situation more irksome than if
they were already subject to the fury of the tempest.  Suddenly the
voice of young Edwards was heard shouting in those appalling tones
that carry alarm to the very soul, and which curdle the blood of those
that hear them.

“A tree! a tree! Whip—spur for your lives! a tree! a tree.  “

“A tree! a tree!” echoed Richard, giving his horse a blow that caused
the alarmed beast to jump nearly a rod, throwing the mud and water
into the air like a hurricane.

“Von tree! von tree!” shouted the Frenchman, bending his body on the
neck of his charger, shutting his eyes, and playing on the ribs of his
beast with his heels at a rate
that caused him to be conveyed on the crupper of the sheriff with a
marvellous speed.

Elizabeth checked her filly and looked up, with an unconscious but
alarmed air, at the very cause of their danger, while she listened to
the crackling sounds that awoke the stillness of the forest; but the
next instant her bridlet was seized by her father, who cried, “God
protect my child!” and she felt herself hurried onward, impelled by
the vigor of his nervous arm.

Each one of the party bowed to his saddle-bows as the tearing of
branches was succeeded by a sound like the rushing of the winds, which
was followed by a thundering report, and a shock that caused the very
earth to tremble as one of the noblest ruins of the forest fell
directly across their path.

One glance was enough to assure Judge Temple that his daughter and
those in front of him were safe, and he turned his eyes, in dreadful
anxiety, to learn the fate of the others.  Young Edwards was on the
opposite side of the tree, his form thrown back in his saddle to its
utmost distance, his left hand drawing up his bridle with
its greatest force, while the right grasped that of Miss Grant so as
to draw the head of her horse under its body.  Both the animals stood
shaking in every joint with terror, and snorting fearfully.  Louisa
herself had relinquished her reins, and, with her hands pressed on her
face, sat bending forward in her saddle, in an attitude of despair,
mingled strangely with resignation.

“Are you safe?” cried the Judge, first breaking the awful silence of
the moment.

“By God’s blessing,” returned the youth; but if there had been
branches to the tree we must have been lost—”

He was interrupted by the figure of Louisa slowly yielding in her
saddle, and but for his arm she would have sunk to the earth.  Terror,
however, was the only injury that the clergyman’s daughter had
sustained, and, with the aid of Elizabeth, she was soon restored to
her senses.  After some little time was lost in recovering her
strength, the young lady was replaced in her saddle, and supported on
either side by Judge Temple and Mr. Edwards she was enabled to follow
the party in their slow progress.

“The sudden fallings of the trees,” said Marmaduke, “are the most
dangerous accidents in the forest, for they are not to be foreseen,
being impelled by no winds, nor any extraneous or visible cause
against which we can guard.”

“The reason of their falling, Judge Temple, is very obvious,” said the
sheriff.  “The tree is old and decayed, and it is gradually weakened
by the frosts, until a line drawn from the centre of gravity falls
without its base, and then the tree comes of a certainty; and I should
like to know what greater compulsion there can be for any thing than a
mathematical certainty.  I studied math—”

“Very true, Richard,” interrupted Marmaduke; “thy reasoning is true,
and, if my memory be not over-treacherous, was furnished by myself on
a former occasion, But how is one to guard against the danger? Canst
thou go through the forests measuring the bases and calculating the
centres of the oaks? Answer me that, friend Jones, and I will say thou
wilt do the country a service.”

“Answer thee that, friend Temple!” returned Richard; “a well-educated
man can answer thee anything, sir.  Do any trees fall in this manner
but such as are decayed? Take care not to approach the roots of a
rotten tree, and you will be safe enough.”

“That would be excluding us entirely from the forests,’ said
Marmaduke.  “But, happily, the winds usually force down most of these
dangerous ruins, as their currents are admitted into the woods by the
surrounding clearings, and such a fall as this has been is very rare.”

Louisa by this time had recovered so much strength as to allow the
party to proceed at a quicker pace, but long before they were safely
housed they were overtaken by the storm; and when they dismounted at
the door of the mansion-house, the black plumes of Miss Temple’s hat
were drooping with the weight of a load of damp snow, and the coats of
the gentlemen were powdered with the same material.

While Edwards was assisting Louisa from her horse, the warm-hearted
girl caught his hand with fervor and whispered:

“Now, Mr. Edwards, both father and daughter owe their lives to you.”

A driving northwesterly storm succeeded, and before the sun was set
every vestige of spring had vanished; the lake, the mountains, the
village, and the fields being again hidden under one dazzling coat of
snow.