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When at last I awoke to consciousness, I found myself in my bed, with Antony and Claes bending anxiously over me. They would not let me speak-for the doctor had ordered otherwise but in a few words told me all. I had been sick-very sickdelirious too. From morning till night had I raved and tossed about, until it was sometimes a matter of difficulty to hold me in bed. At one time my life had been despaired of, but kind and unremitting attention had carried me through the dreadful crisis, and with the continual exercise of proper precaution, I was sure to get well.

"And why am I sick, Antony?" I asked, in spite of his reiterated commands to be silent. It seems as if I had heard some stunning news which❞—

Then the whole story flashed suddenly upon me, and I became silent again. I wept not, for I could not shed a tear, but for hours I lay immoveable in a kind of trance, being without the power of speaking, but yet able to hear and see all that passed on around me, during which I readily knew by the countenances of my attendants, that they were very much alarmed at my deathlike situation.

Towards afternoon, I recovered from the stupor, and was able to sit up and talk a little and even eat a trifle. Still wept not, groaned not; but did all things with an impulse almost mechanical. I noticed that Claes seemed to wonder at my stolidity, and his eye brightened, for he already deemed me recovered from the shock; but Antony, with more penetration, perceived the true state of my case, knowing how much more violent must be that woe which is not outwardly expressed.

"My friend, that paper!" I whispered.

Antony would have retained it from me, but after a little consideration gave it up, rather than to allow me to worry and fret, as I should surely otherwise have done. I turned to the shipping news, and read the afflicting intelligence over and over, before I could realize its true meaning.

"Antony," I at length said.

"Well, Byvank." "There is hope."

He sadly shook his head. But I could not completely abandon my feeble straw of consolation.

"It was a wreck-none were found on board. But were there not smaller boats at hand, in which to escape? Men have been found floating in the midst of the sea upon a single plank, which has sustained them for days together."

"Forbear, my friend, to cherish such vain hopes, when in your own mind you must be conscious that they will amount to nothing. Relinquish all doubts of your loss, and strive to be resigned under its certainty. So it will be better for you."

Still I continued for the rest of the day reading and re-reading each sentence of the announcement of the shipwreck, turning and

twisting them all the while into every imaginable form, whereby I might gleam some slight hope of my nephew's safety. Vain attempt! All the while I knew that such conduct was weak and foolish, yet would not acknowledge to myself my foolishness.

Day after day flew on, and although I grew stronger until I could be considered well in body, my mind still felt the shock, nor could all Antony's efforts arouse me from my lethergy. Our excursions and evening meetings were abandoned, for I could not enjoy them. All day I did nothing but sit and ponder over my loss, or, in the same desponding, despairing spirit, walk up and down the lawn. A mist seemed continually before me. I did all things mechanically, instinctively. I believe nothing would then have excited or surprised me. Had my nephew himself risen from the river as I walked by the bank, and joining me, related the story of his shipwreck, and pointed to his wet clothes in confirmation of the truth of his statement, I verily believe that I should have welcomed him, as soberly, as though he were not dead, and had merely joined me from the house. To such a state of lethargy will excessive grief often bring one!

To all Antony's attempts to cheer me, I had but one answer, yet it was one with the justice of which he could find no fault.

"I could lose a dozen children, Antony, were there one left to bear my name. But by this bereavement, alas! the last hope of my line is gone; the last branch is lopped off from the old trunk. Were there but one little sprig left, I might still hope, but what is now left to the old trunk but to die and leave the soil to be planted with other seed?"

So three weeks passed away, and I still continued to wander on the river's bank, and muse over my sorrows. I grew no better in mind, but rather worse, and, as I afterwards learned, Antony kept a strict watch over my movements, fearing lest I might be led In some transient paroxism of grief, to make an attempt upon my life. Vain thought! It is true that I often wished to die, but the energy for the attempt was wanting.

But one evening a change came over me. How and why it was, I shall proceed to relate.

Antony had been making use of many arguments, setting forth why I should no longer refuse to be comforted, to all of which I made no reply. Gradually I sank to sleep, and the last I remember is, that Antony, for the first time a little vexed at my continual obstinacy, remarked, "Byvank, it is wicked to refuse any longer the consolation I offer, for a spirit from Heaven could not say more to you than I have said." This idea, being presented to my mind at the instant I fell into sleep, beyond all doubt occasioned the vision which followed, and which, from some strange unaccountable impression attending it, wonderfully comforted me, although I never for a moment imagined it more than a mere dream.

It seemed as though a sweet and pleasant voice addressed meand it said:

"Why this continual melancholy, Byvank?

Sorrow is natural

and right, but it should at least turn to joy again, else it becomes a wicked repining against Providence.'

"Pardon, good Spirit!" methought I answered, "and yet you know not the depth of my sorrow. Have I not lost all my long cherished hopes of a fair continuance to my name and estate? Must not the one be now extinct, and the other become a prey to strangers? Alas! why was not some other man robbed, who would have had many other sons left to mitigate his loss?"

"Forbear to speak thus!" said the voice, "others have lost more than you. In that vessel that bore your son to destruction, a newly married wife lost her husband, an orphan sister her only brother, a widowed mother her only child, upon whom she depended for support. All these have not only seen the hopes of their families extinguished, but have been reduced to helpless poverty. But you-have you not every comfort which wealth can afford?" "But is there no hope?"

"None. Your last hope sleeps at the bottom of the ocean. Were it mine to order the fate of your nephew, he should have returned in safety to you as he left, but the issues of life and death are with God alone. The sea is his and he made it.'"

I was silent and the voice continued.

"I come not here to upbraid you, but to bring comfort. It is true that your family will end with yourself, and that others who knew you not when alive, will call themselves your relations, and divide your substance. But is there not much in which to rejoice? Behold, Byvank, I will speak a parable to you. A young oak springs from the ground and is admired by all for its matchless symmetry and grace. Soon it grows into a wide-spreading tree, and then all love it, for it brings a grateful shade to those laboring beneath the noon-tide sun. Two centuries pass, and its branches decay and become lifeless, and its leaves no more put forth in answer to the call of Spring. No longer has it any beauty; no more does it give shade to the reaper. But its glory is not gone. The trunk lives no more, but in its day of death, it stands a noble monument of former days, and men, gazing with reverential awe upon its picturesque grandeur, bless it for the good it has done. Do you read my parable, Byvank?"

"I do!-I do! good Spirit!" I cried.

"There is yet more to be told. A vine springs up, and thriving upon the earth which once sustained the oak, clings to its rugged sides. Yet all still admire and love the sapless oak, while its new companion, beautiful as it may be, serves but to adorn it with an additional grandeur. Do you continue to read me, Byvank? Your family mansion is the oak which is admired in youth, loved in its vigor, respected in old age. The life-blood which nourished it within, and extended its branches, dies out and another race is fed upon the same soil. Yet the old mansion is still loved, on account of the recollections it affords, and the hospitality it has

furnished, and whoever in future may inhabit it, will but adorn your memory, by either comparison or contrast.

"So cheer up! Marschalk, for since you and yours have so well performed your parts, you will leave the world with the loving regret of all. Let a noble object stimulate you during the remainder of your life. Be kind and charitable. Let the hungry never want a place at your board, nor the weary a night's rest within your walls. Then after you are gone, the Marschalk Manor-House will be spoken of in terms of such affectionate respect, that no one will dare to raise a Vandal hand against it, or give utterance to a sneer at its honored walls."

The voice ceased, and I was alone. I awoke, and oh! how was I soothed! It could have. been but a dream; it could not have been real; yet from that hour I have become a different man. Not merry always-for very often I think with deep regret upon my nephew thus early cut off-but my thoughts are of no repining nature. My remembrance has since been unclouded with its former wicked abandonment to grief.

CHAPTER SEVENTH,

Showith forth cur present manner of life.

We did not resume our excursions, for when my mind recovered from its paralysis, the season was too far advanced. The leaves were fallen from the trees, the air became chilly, and when one morning we saw a steamboat slowly plodding up through a thin coating of newly formed ice, we took the hint and wisely set down to pack up our sporting apparatus, and deliberate upon the adoption of some new pastime. And Antony made a suggestion, which so fairly chimed in with my own feelings, that it was almost immediately brought to maturity.

"We have roamed the country at large, and picked up many an interesting legend and historical anecdote," he said, "why not reduce these to manuscript before they are lost with the memory of the generation to which they belong? This will give us employment through the day, and at evening we will gather around the hearth and read the results of our labors."

"An excellent plan, my friend! And when shall we begin?" "This very day, if you will, for lo! winter is already upon us," said Van Noortstrandt, pointing towards the window.

I turned, and saw the air filled with thickly falling snow, to such an extent that the opposite hills were rendered invisible. With a simultaneous movement, we rushed to the window, threw up the sash, and gave vent to our enthusiasm in a loud "hurrah!" "Yet once again!" I said.

"Hurrah!" And we raised such a shout as the Highlands had seldom heard before.

A slight chirrup below attracted our attention, and we saw a poor little robin half-frozen in the snow, gazing around with filmy

eyes, fast deadening with the cold. Van Noortstrandt ran for his gun, but I, intent upon a more humane purpose, quickly brought the little sufferer up, and gave it warmth and food. And then it hopped to a dark corner of my book-case, coming out daily to be fed.

Deeper and deeper fell the snow, until we could no longer re-train ourselves from rushing out and engaging in a hearty pelting frolic. Rather a boyish pastime to be sure, but—we were boys at heart!

That evening we sat before a huge fire, which merrily blazed in the ample chimney. Each sat in his carved elbow-chair; each poured out his glass-full of old wine, not excepting Claes, who was admitted on all proper occasions to my sanctum; each filled a pipe with fragrant tobacco, Claes still not excepted; Zephyr curled himself at my feet; and the little robin, hopped upon his perch and sung a merry song.

"We are five in all," said Van Noortstrandt, as he listened to the warble, and then looked smilingly down upon the gray-hound. "Yes, five, and few happier parties are to-night collected." Then unlocking my drawer-for it was stipulated that I should start our evening pursuits-I tumbled a pile of loose manuscript over and over, and would perhaps never have made a selection, were it not for Antony, who snatching up a paper at random, thrust it into my hand, closed and locked the drawer, and then, pulling me up yet closer to him, good humoredly commanded me to read. So I proceeded to open the paper. Zephyr gave a short bark and rolled over on the other side; the robin discreetly finished his song and hopped off his perch; and Claes, arousing himself from a doze, opened his ears very wide to hear what I might have to say or read, and immediately fell asleep again. No matter-the fixed attention of Van Noortstrandt made ample amends for all.

And so commenced our winter's entertainment, nor have they yet been discontinued. Although spring has come and our sporting pastimes are again in vogue, yet still do we meet together each evening to write and read.

Wedded to the past as I am, my thoughts when written, always smack of olden times, and are bounded in their play by the valley of the Hudson. But with Antony it is different. Having mixed much with the world during the last few years, his thoughts fly further and freer, and admit indeed of no limit. His pen dabbles in the history of every nation, and often does he depart from a strictly serious view, to attempt the difficult parts of humor and burlesque.

Never shall I forget the first time Antony read his allotted contribution to me.

It was after a great deal of hesitation that he drew a roll of writing from his pocket, examined it some time in evident deliberation as to the propriety of putting it in the fire, and thus consuming in an instant much labor of the pen, and then, seeing

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