It is a melancholy narrative--the more melancholy as it is most
certainly true. It will not be told in vain, if the crime which
it describes in proper colors, and the vengeance by which it was
followed, and which it equally records, shall secure the innocent
from harm, and discourage the incipient wrongdoer from his base
designs.
CHAPTER II.
THE TRAVELLERS.
Let the traveller stand with us on the top of this rugged eminence,
and look down upon the scene below. Around us, the hills gather
in groups on every side, a family cluster, each of which wears the
same general likeness to that on which we stand, yet there is no
monotony in their aspect. The axe has not yet deprived them of a
single tree, and they rise up, covered with the honored growth of
a thousand summers. But they seem not half so venerable. They wear,
in this invigorating season, all the green, fresh features of youth
and spring. The leaves cover the rugged Limbs which sustain them,
with so much ease and grace, as if for the first time they were
so green and glossy, and as if the impression should be made more
certain and complete, the gusty wind of March has scattered abroad
and borne afar, all the yellow garments of the vanished winter.
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