HISTORY OF DUNGEON ROCK. (continued 2)

“Really, quite a compliment; anything more?”

“Yes; I see a great deal of wood.”

“Well, that it is the land that I work on,—is it not?”

“No; it is something in connection with your partner. I see him now. He is young—light-complected for a black-eyed person. There is something strange about his eyes; they glare at me like coals of fire. He is not very handsome, but there is a taking way with him that makes the gentlefolks like him at first sight. Splendid young fellow, ah!”

“Yes,” said Marble, “fine man; is he not?”

An Indian-like grunt escaped her, and she said, “You have not told me what that wood means.”

“Wood—why, it is his name—is it not?”

“Yes,—I think so. It is gone now,” she said, and prepared to lay aside her stone.

“You spoke about his being young; is he not old enough for that work?” Marble asked.

“In years he is,” she answered, moodily.

“Not old enough in business, then, you meant,” he continued.

“In iniquity, did you say?” she asked.

Mr. M. saw he could get nothing more from her that day, and soon took his leave.

Time passed. Mr. Marble’s confidence was betrayed, and his plans frustrated. Mr. Wood took the whole responsibility upon himself, and tried to buy the rock. Finding he was foiled in this, he hired a man to go to work against Mr. Marble. In this he failed also, and, instead of getting the other half of the business, he lost the half he already had. After this, Mr. Marble had no more partners. The man Mr. Wood had hired kept on working there in his own employ. Marble had built a small house for his own accommodation some time before, and one or another of his or Mr. Wheeler’s family had done the work there, and kept them comfortable. Now the hired man offered to bring his wife there to reside, which he did a short time before Mr. Wood left. Mr. Marble’s family had been staying in the vicinity a while, but long before the cold weather they returned to their home in the interior, and nothing now remained to cheer the unbroken monotony of his way. The long, and chilling winter of the year eighteen hundred and fifty-five will be remembered a great while by the man whose work was to find a way to Dungeon Rock.

With the summer came plenty and warmth again; the little garden was planted, the carriage road laid out and built, where before there was scarcely a path; a friend gave him two hundred dollars, to be refunded when he found himself able. With this he laid the foundation for a large stone building, to be erected in the octagon form, somewhat after the fashion of the gray and sombre Oriad. Then another person seemingly still more of a friend, was directed (also by the spirits) to forward two or three thousand dollars to have the work go on. This was a brilliant proposal; but owing to some mismanagement or mistake it was never carried into effect. A short time before this a spring was discovered upon the low land near the rock, which proved to be a great curiosity. Then a small wooden house was erected, in addition to the one already there, into which the remainder of Mr. Marble’s family, consisting of a wife and daughter, removed.

Soon after this, a party of people from Charlestown and Boston, who had lately become interested in the place, were there on a visit, when a medium being entranced, purported to speak from the spirit of Sir Walter Scott, and requested a lady who was present to make Mr. Marble a present, such as he (the spirit) would dictate. It afterwards came in the shape of a flag-staff, eighty feet in length, which was firmly planted in the place formerly excavated by the Hutchinsons. Then a flag with the appropriate inscription, “Thy faith is founded on a rock,” was raised upon it by the lady’s own hands. There was no fear of starvation that winter, but the snow was wondrously deep, and the hollows were piled softly up, almost even with the hill-tops.

When the spring opened, company came thronging again to the rock, to see and hear all that was wonderful and strange; for the popularity of the place had been steadily increasing, and the world is ever on the lookout for something new. All that spring and summer company and visitors, picnic parties and relatives, were coming in rapid succession, and no material change was made, either in the work or their way of life.

Fresh, dreamy September, like a maiden just passing from childhood to her teens, came softly on. There is but one more incident of interest to note; that is, when the great philanthropist, and remarkable medium, John M. Spear, paid it a passing visit, in company with two or three other mediums.

And now our history is finished.

There is a small room, away in the very top of a block of buildings, where the sun beats scorchingly down, and the dust whirls in clouds through the narrow street. And there, where affluence is unknown, and elegance unconsulted,—where no rich tapestry shields the artist’s easel from the light,—is a work of magic art and mystic mystery, which has been seen by hundreds, and will be by thousands. It is a rare bright picture—a childish, dimpled face, with deep, wondrous blue eyes, and thick clustering curls; one round arm is flung over the shaggy neck of a large black dog, as if to show how perfectly the spiritual part of nature can overcome the animal; and the whole picture represents some half-embodied ideal, which is in future years to become a reality. There are, undoubtedly, the touches of the old artists, Ben West, Raphael, and Angelo, about the work, and their power may not be yet extinct; but the world is not ready for such ideas as yet; it must receive the truth gradually.

But, the picture of “Natty, a spirit,” has nothing to do with our present work. It is its executor of whom we would speak. He is an artist of some celebrity, and his painting of the spirit child has made him famous. He professes to have distinct visions of spirits in human form; snatches of landscapes, birds, flowers, and, indeed, almost every thing that can be seen in the natural world. He is a reflective, and rather a peculiar man; there are silvery threads in his hair, and furrows on his brow, as though he thought a great deal. And he it is that has been chosen to do the work of planning and directing the laying out of Dungeon Pasture, which is to be called “Iowah;” a name which the red man gave it long ago, and which signifies “I have found it.”

The legend of that name is as follows: “Several hundred years ago the united forces of pestilence, famine, and war, had so reduced a large tribe of Indians, that only a very few remained, and, after calling a council of their wisest men, these few determined to leave the home of their fathers and found a new settlement; accordingly, they started through the trackless wild on their vague expedition; they passed

and at last came to the foot of a large hill, with an enormous ledge upon the top. Upon climbing this, they saw spread out before them a panoramic view of what they knew would prove a good hunting-ground, for it had forests for game and water for fish. Then a loud cry of “Iowah! Iowah!” made the welkin ring, and the whole party encamped that night in the large, open cave, before commencing their work. They called the river Saugus, which means broad or extended, and when the tribe grew large and strong, and reached away down to the great “Father of Waters,” they called the two beaches Nahaunte, which means, the brothers, or the twins.

All this is to be revived again; the woodland to be laid out in groves, and parks and forests; the spring in the cave to be cleared again, and its brink bordered by marble slabs; the ancient, scattered treasures will be gathered up, bright flashing diamonds, clear white seed pearls, with heavy gold settings, and antique jewelry and ornaments, that have been a long time lying useless. The heavy iron-bound box, that was left there, has been disturbed and broken by the action of the earth, and its contents are now duly mixed up with equal quantities of dirt, loose stones, and rubbish, which the water from the spring, all choked up as it is, has for the space of two hundred consecutive years been laying. There was once a case of silks left there, but, as the cave is not perfectly air and water tight, the probability is that, although they look the same as ever, there is not much durability to them. The grave of Arabel, Veale levelled down, but the spot is still pointed out by mediums, and, although the tree under which Harris laid her has long since decayed, another has grown up very near where that was supposed to stand, which is now in the centre of a thriving garden.

Cathrin’s sepulchre is the “rock of ages,” and traces of her remains will be found upon one of the shelving places in the cave. The child was buried, but

will be found by Cathrin’s side, where Veale, with his superstitious reverence, placed them.

The cave will be found in two separate apartments, beside the entrance, which clairvoyant mediums see as another room. Veale himself, or rather his bones, will be found in the outer, or largest room, together with the remains of his shoemaking tools. The other contents of the rock we leave for time to discover, and the sagacity of the “Excavator” to make known.

The medium that Madame Lamphier saw four years ago, at the age of twelve, has been employed more or less, for five or six weeks past, in writing this little work, which we now send on its way, without a fear that its mission will ever be unaccomplished. The time for all things to be done is ordered; and when we have said all that can be known about such a place as Dungeon Rock, there still remains one question unanswered—one doubt unremoved. Time alone can verify what hundreds have told, either by impression, clairvoyance, or entrancement, that there still remains a cave there, and that the present laborer, Mr. Hiram Marble, otherwise known as the Excavator, shall be the one to discover it.