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Updated: June 3, 2025
But August Wehle the striker, just when he was to be made an engineer, when he thought he had smooth sailing, suddenly and provokingly found himself fast aground, with no spar or capstan by which he might help himself off, with no friendly craft alongside to throw him a hawser and pull him off.
He hated him by intuition, and a liking for him had not been begotten by Betsey's assurances that he was making headway with Julia. August was riding astride a bag of corn on his way to mill, when Humphreys, taking a walk, met him. "A pleasant day, Mr. Wehle!" "Yes," said August, with a courtesy as mechanical as Humphreys's smile.
She hated Wehle because he was a Dutchman; she would have hated him on a dozen other scores if he had been an American. It was offense enough that Julia loved him.
Many a man could afford to drive Dexters and Flora Temples who would be ruined by a conscience. But I must not write the essay here, for I am keeping August out in the night air and his perplexity all this time. August Wehle had the habit, I think I have said, of going through with an enterprise.
It was the love of August that had opened Julia's heart to the influences of heaven, and Julia was to August a mediator of God's grace. By eleven o'clock August Wehle and his wife it gives me nearly as much pleasure as it did August to use that locution were standing not far away from the surging crowd of those who, in singing hymns and in excited prayer, were waiting for the judgment.
At two o'clock that night August Wehle stood upon the shore of the Ohio in company with Andrew Anderson, the Backwoods Philosopher. Andrew waved a fire-brand at the steamboat "Isaac Shelby," which was coming round the bend. And the captain tapped his bell three times and stopped his engines. Then the yawl took the two men aboard, and two days afterward Andrew came back alone.
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