Isaac Hanselpecker, a neighbour of ours; he was leaning over the bars, apparently wanting a lounge excessively. He had just finished milking, and had handed the pails to Miss Hanselpecker, as he called his wife. If there be a trait of American character peculiar to itself, displayed more fully than another by contrast with Europeans, it is in the treatment of the gentler sex, differing as it does materially from the picture of the Englishman, standing with his back to the fire, while the ladies freeze around him; or the glittering politeness of the Frenchman, hovering like a butterfly by the music stand; it has in it more of intellect and real tenderness than either, although tending as it does to the advancement of national character, some of their own talented ones begin to complain that in the refined circles of the States they are becoming almost too civilised in this respect: the ladies requiring rather more than is due to them. Yet among the working classes it has a sweet and wholesome influence, softening as it does the asperities of labour, and lightening the burthen to each. Here woman’s empire is within, and here she shines the household star of the poor man’s hearth; not in idleness, for in America, of all countries in the world, prosperity depends on female industry. Here “she looketh well to the ways of her household, and eateth not the bread of idleness,” and for this reason, perhaps, it is, that their husbands arise and call them blessed. Now Mr. Hanselpecker had all the respect for his lady natural to his country, and assisted her domestic toils by milking the cows, making fires, and fetching wood and water. Yet there was one material point in which he failed: she was often “scant of bread,” he being one who, even in this land of toil, got along, somehow or other, with wondrous little bodily labour; professing to be a farmer, he held one of the finest pieces of land in the settlement, but his agricultural operations, for the most part, consisted in hoeing a few sickly stems of corn, while others were reaping buckwheat, or sowing a patch of flax, “’cause the old woman wanted loom gears;” shooting cranes, spearing salmon, or trapping musquash on the lake, he prefers to raising fowl or sheep, as cranes find their own provisions, and fish require no fences to keep them from the fields. His wife’s skill, however, in managing the dairy department, is, when butter rates well in the market, their chief dependence; and he, when he chooses to work, which he would much rather do for another than himself, can earn enough in one day, if he take truck, to keep him three, and but that he prefers fixing cucumbers to thrashing, and making moccasins to clearing land, he might do well enough. Though poor, he is none the least inclined to grovel, but, with the spirit of his land, feels quite at ease in company with any judge or general in the country.
Having declined his invitation to enter the log erection,–which in another country would hardly be styled a house, he having still delayed to enclose the gigantic frame, whose skeleton form was reared hard by–he gave his opinion of the weather at present, with some shrewd guesses as to what it would be in future; regarding the smoke wreaths from the fires around (there were none on his land however), he said, it reminded him of the fire in Miramichi. “How long is it, old woman,” said he, turning to his wife, who had now joined us, “since that ere burning?” “Well,” said she, “I aint exactly availed to tell you right off how many years it is since, but I guess our Jake was a week old when it happened.”
Now, as the burning of Miramichi was one of the most interesting historical events in the province records, we gave him the date, which was some twenty years since; this also gave us the sum of Jacob’s lustres–rather few considering he had planted a tater patch on shares, and laid out to marry in the fall.
“Well,” said he, “You may depend that was a fire–my hair curls yet when I think of it–it was the same summer we got married, and Washington Welford having been out a timber-hunting with me the fall afore, we discovered a most elegant growth of pine–I never see’d before nor since the equal on it–regular sixty footers, every log on ’em–the trees stood on the banks of the river, as if growing there on purpose to be handy for rafting, and we having got a first-rate supply from our merchants in town, toted our things with some of the old woman’s house trumpery to the spot–we soon had up a shanty, and went to work in right airnest. There was no mistake in Wash; he was as clever a fellow as ever I knowed, and as handsome a one–seven feet without his shoes–eyes like diamonds, and hair slick as silk; when he swung his axe among the timber, you may depend he looked as if he had a mind to do it–our felling and hewing went on great, and with the old woman for cook we made out grand–she, however, being rather delicate, we hired a help, a daughter of a neighbour about thirty miles off. Ellen Ross was as smart a gal as ever was raised in these clearings–her parents were old country folks, and she had most grand larning, and was out and out a regular first-rater. Washington and her didn’t feel at all small together–they took a liking to each other right away, and a prettier span was never geared. Well, our Jake was born, and the old woman got smart, and about house again. Wash took one of our team horses, and he and Ellen went off to the squire’s to get yoked. It was a most beautiful morning when they started, but the weather soon began to change–there had been a most uncommon dry spell–not a drop of rain for many weeks, nor hardly a breath of air in the woods, but now there came a most fearful wind and storm, and awful black clouds gathering through the sky–the sun grew blood red, and looked most terrible through the smoke. I had heard of such things as ‘clipses, but neither the almanac, nor the old woman’s universal, said a word about it. Altho’ there was such a wind, there was the most burning heat–one could hardly breathe, and the baby lay pale and gasping–we thought it was a dying. The cattle grew oneasy, and all at once a herd of moose bounded into our chopping, and a lot of bears after them, all running as if for dear life. I got down the rifle, and was just a going to let fly at them, when a scream from the old woman made me look about. The woods were on fire all round us, and the smoke parting before us, showed the flames crackling and roaring like mad, ’till the very sky seemed on fire over our heads. I did’nt know what to do, and, in fact, there was no time to calculate about it. The blaze glared hotly on our faces, and all the wild critturs of the woods began to carry on most ridiculous, and shout and holler like all nature I caught up my axe, and the old woman the baby, and took the only open space left for us, where the stream was running, and the fire couldn’t catch. Just as we were going, a horse came galloping most awful fast right through the fire–it was poor Washington; his clothes all burnt, and his black hair turned white as snow, and oh! the fearful burden he carried in his arms. Ellen Ross, the beautiful bright-eyed girl, who had left us so smilingly in the morning, lay now before us a scorched and blackened corpse–the scared horse fell dead on the ground. I hollered to Washington to follow us to the water, but he heard me not; and the flames closed fast o’er him and his dead bride–poor fellow, that was the last on him–and creation might be biled down, ere you could ditto him any how. By chance our timber was lying near in the stream, and I got the old woman and the baby on a log, and stood beside them up to the neck in water, which now grew hot, and actilly began to hiss around me. The trees on the other side of the river had caught, and there was an arch of flame right above us. My stars! what a time we had of it! Lucifees and minks, carraboo and all came close about us, and an Indian devil got upon the log beside my wife; poor critturs, they were all as tame as possible, and half frightened to death. I thought the end of the world was come for sartain. I tried to pray, but I was got so awful hungry, that grace before meat was all I could think off. How long we had been there I couldn’t tell, but it seemed tome a ‘tarnity–fire, howsomever, cannot burn always–that’s a fact; so at the end of what we afterwards found to be the third day, we saw the sun shine down on the still smoking woods. The old woman was weak, I tell you; and for me, I felt considerably used up–howsomever I got to the shore, and hewed out a canoe from one of our own timber sticks–there was no need of lucifers to strike a light–lots of brands were burning about. I laid some on to it and burnt it out, and soon had a capital craft, and away we went down the stream. Dead bodies of animals were floating about, and there were some living ones, looking as if they had got out of their latitude, and didn’t think they would find it. I reckon we weren’t the only sufferers by that ere conflagration. As we came down to the settlements folks took us for ghosts, we looked so miserable like–howsomever, with good tendin, we soon came round again; but, to tell you the truth, it makes me feel kind a narvous, when I see a fallow burning ever since. Tho’ folks could’nt tell how that ere fire happened, and say it was a judgment on lumber men and sich like, I think it came from some settlers’ improvements, who, wishing to raise lots of taters, destroyed the finest block of timber land in the province, besides the ships in Miramichi harbour, folks’ buildings, and many a clever feller, whose latter end was never known.”
“And so I suppose Mr. H.,” said his wife, “that is the reason you make such slim clearings.” “I estimate your right,” said he; and we, not expecting the spice of sentiment which flavored Mr. H.’s story, left him, and reached home, where we closed the evening by putting into the following shape one of Silas Marvin’s legends, not written with a perryian pen and azure fluid, but with a quill from the wing of a wild goose, shot by our friend Hanselpecker, (who by the way was fond of such game,) as last fall it took its flight from our cold land to the sunny south, and with home-made ink prepared from a decoction of white maple bark.
THE LOST ONE,
A TALE OF THE EARLY SETTLERS.
Beyond the utmost verge of the limits which the white settlers had yet dared to encroach on the red owners of the soil, stood the humble dwelling of Kenneth Gordon, a Scotch emigrant, whom necessity had driven from the blue hills and fertile vallies of his native land, to seek a shelter in the tangled mazes of the forests of the new world. Few would have had the courage to venture thus into the very power of the savage–but Kenneth Gordon possessed a strong arm and a hopeful heart, to give the lips he loved unborrowed bread; this nerved him against danger, and, ‘spite of the warning of friends, Kenneth pitched his tent twelve miles from the nearest settlement. Two years passed over the family in their lonely home, and nothing had occurred to disturb their peace, when business required Kenneth’s presence up the river. One calm and dewy morning he prepared for his journey; Marion Gordon followed her husband to the wicket, and a tear, which she vainly strove to hide with a smile, trembled in her large blue eye. She wedded Kenneth when she might well have won a richer bridegroom: she chose him for his worth; their lot had been a hard one–but in all the changing scenes of life their love remained unchanged; and Kenneth Gordon, although thirteen years a husband, was still a lover. Marion strove to rally her spirits, as her husband gaily cheered her with an assurance of his return before night. “Why so fearful, Marion? See here is our ain bonny Charlie for a guard, and what better could an auld Jacobite wish for?” said Kenneth, looking fondly on his wife; while their son marched past them in his Highland dress and wooden claymore by his side. Marion smiled as her husband playfully alluded to the difference in their religion; for Kenneth was a staunch presbyterian, and his wife a Roman catholic; yet that difference–for which so much blood has been shed in the world–never for an instant dimmed the lustre of their peace; and Marion told her glittering beads on the same spot where her husband breathed his simple prayer. Kenneth, taking advantage of the smile he had roused, waved his hand to the little group, and was soon out of sight.
The hot and sultry day was passed by Marion in a state of restless anxiety, but it was for Kenneth alone she feared, and the hours sped heavily till she might expect his return. Slowly the burning sun declined in the heavens, and poured a flood of golden radiance on the leafy trees and the bright waves of the majestic river, which rolled its graceful waters past the settlers dwelling. Marion left her infant asleep in a small shed at the back of the log-house, with Mary, her eldest daughter, to watch by it, and taking Charlie by the hand went out to the gate to look for her husband’s return. Kenneth’s father, an old and almost superannuated man, sat in the door-way, with twin girls of Kenneth’s sitting on his knees, singing their evening hymn, while he bent fondly over them.
Scarcely had Marion reached the wicket, when a loud yell–the wild war-whoop of the savage–rang on her startled ear. A thousand dark figures seemed to start from the water’s edge–the house was surrounded, and she beheld the grey hairs of the old man twined round in the hand of one, and the bright curls of her daughters gleamed in that of another; while the glittering tomahawk glared like lightning in her eyes. Madly she rushed forward to shield her children; the vengeance of the Indian was glutted, and the life-blood of their victims crimsoned the hearth stone! The house was soon in flames–the war dance was finished–and their canoes bounded lightly on the waters, bearing them far from the scene of their havoc.
As the sun set a heavy shower of rain fell and refreshed the parched earth–the flowers sent up a grateful fragrance on the evening air–the few singing birds of the woods poured forth their notes of melody–the blue jay screamed among the crimson buds of the maple, and the humming bird gleamed through the emerald sprays of the beech tree.
The pearly moon was slowly rising in the blue aether, when Kenneth Gordon approached his home. He was weary with his journey, but the pictured visions of his happy home, his smiling wife, and the caresses of his sunny haired children, cheered the father’s heart, though his step was languid, and his brow feverish. But oh! what a sight of horror for a fond and loving heart met his eyes, as he came in sight of the spot that contained his earthly treasures–the foreboding silence had surprised him–he heard not the gleeful voices of his children, as they were wont to bound forth to meet him, he saw not Marion stand at the gate to greet his return–but a thick black smoke rose heavily to the summits of the trees, and the smouldering logs of the building fell with a sullen noise to the ground. The rain had quenched the fire, and the house was not all consumed. Wild with terror, Kenneth rushed forward; his feet slipped on the bloody threshhold, and he fell on the mangled bodies of his father and his children. The demoniac laceration of the stiffening victims told too plainly who had been their murderers. How that night of horror passed Kenneth knew not. The morning sun was shining bright–when the bereaved and broken-hearted man was roused from the stupor of despair by the sound of the word “father” in his ears; he raised his eyes, and beheld Mary, his eldest daughter, on her knees beside him. For a moment Kenneth fancied he had had a dreadful dream, but the awful reality was before him. He pressed Mary wildly to his bosom, and a passionate flood of tears relieved his burning brain. Mary had heard the yells of the savages, and the shrieks of her mother convinced her that the dreaded Indians had arrived. She threw open the window, and snatching the infant from its bed, flew like a wounded deer to the woods behind the house. The frightened girl heard all, remained quiet, and knowing her father would soon return, left the little Alice asleep on some dried leaves, and ventured from her hiding place.
No trace of Marion or of Charles could be found–they had been reserved for a worse fate; and for months a vigilant search was kept up–parties of the settlers, led on by Kenneth, scoured the woods night and day. Many miles off a bloody battle had been fought between two hostile tribes, where a part of Marion’s dress and of her son’s was found, but here all trace of the Indians ended, and Kenneth returned to his desolated home. No persuasion could induce him to leave the place where the joys of his heart had been buried: true, his remaining children yet linked him to life, but his love for them only increased his sorrow for the dead and the lost. Kenneth became a prematurely old man–his dark hair faded white as the mountain snow–his brow was wrinkled, and his tall figure bent downwards to the earth.
Seventeen years had rolled on their returnless flight since that night of withering sorrow. Kenneth Gordon still lived, a sad and broken-spirited man; but time, that great tamer of the human heart, which dulls the arrows of affliction, and softens the bright tints of joy down to a sober hue, had shed its healing influence even over his wounded heart. Mary Gordon had been some years a wife, and her children played around Kenneth’s footsteps. A little Marion recalled the wife of his youth; and another, Charlie, the image of his lost son, slept in his bosom. There was yet another person who was as a sunbeam in the sight of Kenneth; her light laugh sounded as music in his ears, and the joy-beams of her eyes fell gladly on his soul. This gladdener of sorrow was his daughter Alice, now a young and lovely woman; bright and beautiful was she, lovely as a rose-bud, with a living soul–
“No fountain from its native cave,
E’er tripped with foot so free;
She was as happy as a wave
That dances o’er the sea.”
Alice was but five months old when her mother was taken from her, but Mary, who watched over her helpless infancy with a care far beyond her years, and with love equal to a mother’s, was repaid by Alice with most unbounded affection; for to the love of a sister was added the veneration of a parent.
One bright and balmy Sabbath morning Kenneth Gordon and his family left their home for the house of prayer. Mary and her husband walked together, and their children gambolled on the grassy path before them. Kenneth leaned on the arm of his daughter Alice; another person walked by her side, whose eye, when it met her’s, deepened the tint on her fair cheek. It was William Douglas–the chosen lover of her heart, and well worthy was he to love the gentle Alice. Together they proceeded to the holy altar, and the next Sabbath was to be their bridal day.
A change had taken place since Kenneth Gordon first settled on the banks of the lonely river. The white walls and graceful spire of a church now rose where the blue smoke of the solitary log-house once curled through the forest trees; and the ashes of Kenneth’s children and his father reposed within its sacred precincts. A large and populous village stood where the red deer roved on his trackless path. The white sails of the laden barque gleamed on the water, where erst floated the stealthy canoe of the savage; and a pious throng offered their aspirations where the war-whoop had rung on the air.
Alice was to spend the remaining days of her maiden life with a young friend, a few miles from her father’s, and they were to return together on her bridal eve. William Douglas accompanied Alice on her walk to the house of her friend. They parted within a few steps of the house. William returned home, and Alice, gay and gladsome as a bird, entered a piece of wood, which led directly to the house. Scarcely had she entered it when she was seized by a strong arm; her mouth was gagged, and something thrown over her head; she was then borne rapidly down the bank of the river, and laid in a canoe. She heard no voices, and the swift motion of the canoe rendered her unconscious. How long the journey lasted she knew not. At length she found herself, on recovering from partial insensibility, in a rude hut, with a frightful-looking Indian squaw bathing her hands, while another held a blazing torch of pine above her head. Their hideous faces, frightful as the imagery of a dream, scared Alice, and she fainted again.
The injuries which Kenneth Gordon had suffered from the savages made him shudder at the name of Indian–and neither he nor his family ever held converse with those who traded in the village. Metea, a chief of the Menomene Indians, in his frequent trading expeditions to the village, had often seen Alice, and became enamoured of the village beauty. He had long watched an opportunity of stealing her, and bearing her away to his tribe, where he made no doubt of winning her love. When Alice recovered the squaws left her, and Metea entered the hut; he commenced by telling her of the great honour in being allowed to share the hut of Metea, a “brave” whose bow was always strung, whose tomahawk never missed its blow, and whose scalps were as numerous as the stars in the path-way of ghosts; and he pointed to the grisly trophies hung in the smoke of the cabin. He concluded by giving her furs and strings of beads, with which the squaws decorated her, and the next morning the trembling girl was led from the hut, and lifted into a circle formed of the warriors of the tribe. Here Metea stood forth and declared his deeds of bravery, and asked their consent for “the flower of the white nation” to be his bride. When he had finished, a young warrior, whose light and graceful limbs might well have been a sculptor’s model, stood forward to speak. He was dressed in the richest Indian costume, and his scalping knife and beaded moccasins glittered in the sunshine. His features bore an expression very different from the others. Neither malice nor cunning lurked in his full dark eye, but a calm and majestic melancholy reposed on his high and smooth brow, and was diffused over his whole mein; and, in the clear tones of his voice, “Brothers,” said he to the warriors, “we have buried the hatchet with the white nation–it is very deep beneath the earth–shall we dig it because Metea scorns the women of his tribe, because he has stolen ‘the flower of the white nation?’ Let her be restored to her people, lest her chiefs come to claim her, and Metea lives to disgrace the brave warriors of the woods?” He sat down, and the circle rising, said, “Our brother speaks well, but Metea is very _brave_.” It was decided that Alice should remain.
Towards evening Metea entered the hut, and approaching Alice, caught hold of her hand,–the wildest passion gleamed in his glittering eyes, and Alice, shrieking, ran towards the door. Metea caught her in his arms and pressed her to his bosom. Again she shrieked, and a descending blow cleft Metea’s skull in sunder, and his blood fell on her neck. It was the young Indian who advised her liberation in the morning who dealt Metea’s death-blow. Taking Alice in his arms, he stepped lightly from the hut. It was a still and starless night, and the sleeping Indians saw them not. Unloosing a canoe, he placed Alice in it, and pushed softly from the shore.
Before the next sunset Alice was in sight of her home. Her father and friends knew nothing of what had transpired. They fancied her at her friend’s house, and terror at her peril and joy at her return followed in the same breath. Mary threw a timid, yet kind glance on the Indian warrior who had saved her darling Alice, and Kenneth pressed the hand of him who restored his child. In a few minutes William Douglas joined the happy group, and she repeated her escape on his bosom. That night Kenneth Gordon’s prayer was longer and more fervent than usual. The father’s thanks arose to the throne of grace for the safety of his child; he prayed for her deliverer, and for pardon for the hatred he had nurtured against the murderers of his children. During the prayer the Indian stood apart, his arms were folded, and deep thought was marked on his brow. When it was finished, Mary’s children knelt and received Kenneth’s blessing, ere they retired to rest. The Indian rushed forward, and, bursting into tears, threw himself at the old man’s feet–he bent his feathered head to the earth. The stern warrior wept like a child. Oh! who can trace the deep workings of the human heart? Who can tell in what hidden fount the feelings have their spring? The forest chase–the bloody field–the war dance–all the pomp of savage life passed like a dream from the Indian’s soul; a cloud seemed to roll its shadows from his memory. That evening’s prayer, and a father’s blessing, recalled a time faded from his recollection, yet living in the dreams of his soul. He thought of the period when he, a happy child like those before him, had knelt and heard the same sweet words breathed o’er his bending head: he remembered having received a father’s kiss, and a mother’s smile gleamed like a star in his memory; but the fleeting visions of childhood were fading again into darkness, when Kenneth arose, and, clasping the Indian wildly to his breast, exclaimed, “My son, my son! my long lost Charles!” The springs of the father’s love gushed forth to meet his son, and the unseen sympathy of nature guided him to “The Lost One.” ‘Twas indeed Charles Gordon, whom his father held to his breast, but not as he lived in his father’s fancy. He beheld him a painted savage, whose hand was yet stained with blood; but Kenneth’s fondest prayer was granted, and he pressed him again to his bosom, exclaiming again, “He is my son.” A small gold cross hung suspended from the collar of Charles. Kenneth knew it well; it had belonged to Marion, who hung it round her son’s neck e’er her eyes were closed. She had sickened early of her captivity, and died while her son was yet a child: but the relics she had left were prized by him as something holy. From his wampum belt he took a roll of the bark of the birch tree, on which something had been written with a pencil. The writing was nearly effaced, and the signature of Marion Gordon was alone distinguishable. Kenneth pressed the writing to his lips, and again his bruised spirit mourned for his sainted Marion. Mary and Alice greeted their restored brother with warm affection. Kenneth lived but in the sight of his son. Charles rejoiced in their endearments, and all the joys of kindred were to him
“New as if brought from other spheres, Yet welcome as if known for years.”
But soon a change came o’er the young warrior; his eye grew dim, his step was heavy, and his brow was sad: he sought for solitude, and he seemed like a bird pining for freedom. They thought he sighed for the liberty of his savage life, but, alas! it was another cause. The better feelings of the human heart all lie dormant in the Indian character, and are but seldom called into action. Charles had been the “stern stoic of the woods” till he saw Alice. Then the first warm rush of young affections bounded like a torrent through his veins, and he loved his sister with a passion so strong, so overwhelming, that it sapped the current of his life. The marriage of Alice had been delayed on his return–it would again have been delayed on his account, but he himself urged it forward. Kenneth entered the church with Charles leaning on his arm. During the ceremony he stood apart from the others. When it was finished, Alice went up to him and took his hand; it was cold as marble–he was dead; his spirit fled with the bridal benediction. Kenneth’s heart bled afresh for his son, and as he laid his head in the earth he felt that it would not be long till he followed him. Nor was he mistaken; for a few mornings after he was found dead on the grave of “_The Lost One_.”
* * * * *
And now the bright summer of New Brunswick drew onward to its close. The hay, which in this country is cut in a much greener state than is usual elsewhere, and which, from this cause, retains its fragrance till the spring, was safely lodged in the capacious barns. The buck wheat had changed its delicate white flower for the brown clusters of its grain, and the reaper and the thrasher were both busied with it, for so loosely does this grain hang on its stem that it is generally thrashed out of doors as soon as ripe, as much would be lost in the conveyance to the barn.
Grace Marley’s time of departure now drew near; her government stipend had arrived. The proprietors, who paid in trade, had deposited the butter and oats equivalent to her hire in the market boat, in which she intended to proceed to town. And as this is decidedly the pleasantest method of travelling, I laid out to accompany her by the same conveyance, and we were spending the last evening with Mrs. Gordon, who also was to be our companion to St. John; we walked with Helen through her flower-garden, who showed us some flowers, the seeds of which she had received from the old country. I saw a bright hue pass o’er the brow of Grace as we walked among them, and tears gushed forth from her warm and feeling heart. Next day she explained what occasioned her emotion, a feeling which all must have felt, awakened by as slight a cause, when wandering far from their native land. Thus she pourtrayed what she then felt–
THE MIGNIONETTE.
‘Twas when the summer’s golden eve
Fell dim o’er flower and fruit,
A mystic spell was o’er me thrown, As I’d drank of some charmed root.
It came o’er my soul as the breeze swept by, Like the breath of some blessed thing; Again it came, and my spirit rose
As if borne on an angel’s wing.
It bore me away to my native land, Away o’er the deep sea foam;
And I stood, once more a happy child, By the hearth of my early home.
And well-loved forms were by me there, That long in the grave had lain;
And I heard the voices I heard of old, And they smiled on me again.
And I knew once more the dazzling light, Of the spirit’s gladsome youth;
And lived again in the sunny light Of the heart’s unbroken truth.
Yet felt I then, as we always feel, The sweet grief o’er me cast,
When a chord is waked of the spirit’s harp, Which telleth of the past.
And what could it be, that blissful trance? What caused the soul to glide?
Forgetting alike both time and change, So far o’er memory’s tide.
Oh! could that deep mysterious power Be but the breath of an earthly flower? ‘Twas not the rose with her leaves so bright, That flung o’er my soul such dazzling light, Nor the tiger lily’s gorgeous dies,
That changed the hue of my spirit’s eyes. ‘Twas not from the pale, but gifted leaf, That bringeth to mortal pain relief.
Not where the blue wreaths of the star-flower shine, Nor lingered it in the airy bells
Of the graceful columbine.
But again it cometh, I breathe it yet, ‘Tis the sigh of the lowly mignionette. And there, ‘mid the garden’s leafy gems, Blossomed a group of its fairy stems;
Few would have thought of its faint perfume, While they gazed on the rosebud’s crimson bloom. But to me it was laden with sighs and tears, And the faded hopes of by-gone years.
Many a vision, long buried deep,
Was waked again from its dreamless sleep. Thoughts whose light was dim before,
Lived in their pristine truth once more. Well might its form with my fancies weave, For in youth it seemed with me to joy, And in woe with me to grieve.
Oft have I knelt in the cool moonlight, Where it wreathed the lattice pane,
‘Till I felt that He who formed the flower Would hear my prayer again.
Then, welcome sweet thing, in this stranger land, May it smile upon thy birth,
Light fall the rain on thy lovely head, And genial be the earth;
And blest be the power that gave to thee, All lowly as thou art,
The gift unknown to prouder things, To soothe and teach the heart.
Next day we proceeded on our journey, and, preferring the coolness of the deck to the heated atmosphere of the cabin, seated ourselves there to enjoy the quiet beauty of the night. The full glory of a September’s moon was beaming bright in the clear rich blue of heaven; the stars were glittering in the water’s depths, and ever and anon the fire flies flashed like diamonds through the dark foliage on the shore–the light fair breeze scarce stirred the ripples on the stream–when, from one of the white dwellings on the beach in whose casement a light was yet burning, came a low, sad strain of sorrow. I had heard that sound once before, and knew now it was the wail of Irish grief. Strange that mournful dirge of Erin sounded in that distant land. Grace knew the language of her country, and ere the “keen” had died upon the breeze, she translated thus
THE SONG OF THE IRISH MOURNER.
Light of the widow’s heart! art thou then dead? And is then thy spirit from earth ever fled? And shall we, then, see thee and hear thee no more, All radiant in beauty and life as before?
My own blue-eyed darling, Oh, why didst thou die, Ere the tear-drop of sorrow had dimmed thy bright eye, Ere thy cheek’s blooming hue felt one touch of decay, Or thy long golden ringlets were mingled with grey?
Why, star of our path-way, why didst thou depart? Why leave us to weep for the pulse of the heart? Oh, darkened for ever is life’s sunny hour, When robbed of its brightest and loveliest flower!
Around thy low bier sacred incense is flinging, And soft on the air are the silver bells ringing; For the peace of thy soul is the holy mass said, And on thy fair forehead the blessed cross laid.
Soft, soft be thy slumbers, our lady receive thee, And shining in glory for ever thy soul be; To the climes of the blessed, my own grama-chree, May blessings attend thee, sweet cushla ma-chree.
As we passed the jemseg, we spoke of the time when Madame la Tour so bravely defended the fort in the absence of her husband–this occurred in the early times of the province, and strange stories are told of spirit forms which glide along the beach, beneath whose sands the white bones of the French and Indians, who fell in the deadly fight, lie buried. Talking of these things, induced Mrs. Gordon to tell us the following tale, which she had heard, and which I have entitled
A WINTER’S EVENING SKETCH,
WRITTEN IN NEW BRUNSWICK.
“Oh! there’s a dream of early youth, And it never comes again;
‘Tis a vision of joy, and light, and truth, That flits across the brain;
And love is the theme of that early dream, So wild, so warm, so new.
And oft I ween, in our after-years, That early dream we rue.”—Mrs. HEMANS.
The winter’s eve had gathered o’er New Brunswick, and the snow was falling, as in that clime it only knows how to fall. The atmosphere was like the face of Sterne’s monk, “calm, cold, and penetrating,” and the faint tinkling of the sleigh bells came mournfully on the ear as a knell of sadness–so utterly cheerless was the scene. Another hour passed, and our journey was ended. The open door of the hospitable dwelling was ready to receive us, and in the light and heat of a happy home, toil and trouble were alike forgotten.
There is always something picturesque in the interior of a New Brunswick farm house, and this evening everything assumed an aspect of interest and beauty. It might have been the comfortable contrast to the scene without that threw its mellow tints around. Even the homely loom and spinning-wheel lost their uncouthness, and recalled to the mind’s imagery the classic dreams of old romance–Hercules in the chambers of Omphale the story of Arachne and Penelope, the faithful wife of brave Ulysses; but there was other food for the spirit which required not the aid of fancy to render palatable. On the large centre table, round which were grouped the household band, with smiling brows and happy hearts, lay the magazines and papers of the day, with their sweet tales and poetic gems. The “Amulet” and “Keepsake” glittering in silk and gold, and “Chambers,” with plain, unwinning exterior, the ungarnished casket of a mine of treasure, gave forth, like whisperings from a better land, their gentle influence to soothe and cheer the heart, and teach the spirit higher aspirations, while breathing the magic spells raised by their fairy power–those sweet creators of a world unswayed by earth, where hope and beauty live undimmed by time or tears–givers to all who own their power, a solace ‘mid the pining cares of life. Thus, with the aid of these, and the joys of converse, sped the night; and as the wind which had now arisen blew heavy gusts of frozen rain against the windows, we rejoiced in our situation all the more, and looked complacently on the great mainspring of our comfort, the glowing stove, which imparted its grateful caloric through the apartment, and bore on its polished surface shining evidence of the housewife’s care. ‘Twas apparently already a favourite, and the storm without had enhanced its value. Without dissent, all agreed in its perfection and superiority over ordinary fire-places.
Twas a theme which called forth conversation, and when all had given their opinion, uncle Ethel was asked for his.
The person so addressed was an aged man, who reclined in an arm chair apart from the others, sharing not in words with their discourse or mirth, but smiling like a benignant spirit on them. More than eighty years of shade and sunshine had passed o’er him. The few snowy locks which lingered yet around his brow were soft and silky as a child’s–time and sorrow had traced him but a gentle path, ‘twould seem by the light which yet beamed in his calm blue eye and placid smile, the expression was far different from mirthful happiness, but breathed of holy peace and spirit pure, tempered with love and kindness for all–living in the past dreams of youth, he loved the present, when it recalled their sweet memories in brighter beauty from the tomb of faded years, and then it seemed as if a secret woe arose and dimmed the vision when it glowed brightest. A deeper sorrow than for departed youth flashed o’er his brow, brief but fearful, as though he once, and but once only, had felt a pang of agony which had deadened all other lighter woes, and, overcome by resignation, left the spirit calmer as its strong feeling passed away. Such was what we knew of uncle Ethel, but ere the night had worn we knew him better. Joining us in our conversation regarding the stove, he smiled, and said he agreed not with us–our favourite was more sightly, and more useful, but it bore not the friendly face of the old hearthstone–one of memory’s most treasured spots was gone–the _fireside_ of our home–the thought of whose hallowed precincts cheers the wanderer’s heart, and has won many from the path of error, to seek again its sinless welcome.
‘Tis while sitting by the fireside at eve, said he, that the vanished forms of other days gather round me–there where our happiest meetings were in the holy sanctity of our _home_. Where peace and love hovered o’er us, I see again kind faces lit by the ruddy gleam, and hear again the evening hymn, as of old it used to rise from the loving band assembled there. Alas! long years have passed since I missed them from the earth, but there they meet me still–in the glowing fire’s bright light I trace their sweet names, and the vague fancies of childhood are waked again from their dim repose to live in light and truth once more, amid the fantastic visions and shadowy forms, flitting through the red world of embers, on which I loved to gaze when thought and hope were young. I love it even now–the sorrow that is written there makes it more holy to my mind, telling me, as it does, of a clime where grief comes not, and where the blighted hope and broken heart will be at rest.
But why, said the old man, do I talk so long–I weary you, my children, for the fancies of age are not those of youth–hope’s fairy flowers are bright for you–the faded things of memory are mine alone–with them I live, but rejoice ye in your happiness, and gather now, in the spring time of your days, treasures to cheer you in the fall of life. As to your favourite, the stove, although I love it not so well as the old familiar fire-place, I can admire and value it as part of the spirit of improvement which is spreading o’er our land–her early troubles are passing away, and she is rising fast to take her place among the nations of the earth–bitter has been her struggle for existence, but the clouds are fading in the brightness of her coming years, and her past woes will be forgotten.
He ceased, but we all loved to hear him talk, he was so kind and good, and he was earnestly requested for one of those tales of the early times of our own land, which had often thrilled us with their simple, yet often woeful interest.
I am become an egotist to-night, for self is the only theme of which I can discourse. My spirit, too, is like the minstrel harp of which you have to-night been reading, ’twill “echo nought but sadness;” but if it please you, you shall have uncle Ethel’s love story–well may we say alas! for time,
“For he taketh away the heart of youth, And its gladness which hath been
Like the summer’s sunshine on our path, Making the desert green.”
More than sixty years have elapsed since the time of which I now shall speak. We lived then, a large and happy family, in the dwelling where our fathers’ sires had died–sons and daughters had married, but still remained beneath the shadow of the parent roof tree, which seemed to extend its wings like a guardian spirit, as they increased in number. ‘Twas near the city of New York, and stood in the centre of sunny fields, which had been won from the forest shade. Our parents were natives of the soil, but theirs had come from the far land of Germany, and the memories of that land were still fondly cherished by their descendants. The low-roofed cottage, with its many-pointed gables and narrow casement, was gay with the bright flowers of that home of their hearts–cherished and guarded there with the tenderest care–all hues of earth seemed blended in the bright parterre of tulips, over which the magnificent dahlia towered, tall and stately as a queen–the rich scent of the wallflower breathed around, and the jessamine went climbing freely o’er the trellissed porch and arching eaves–each flower around my home bore to me the face of a friend–they bore to me the poetry of the earth, as the stars tell the sweet harmonies of heaven–but there is a vision of fairer beauty than either star or flower comes with the thought of these bye-gone days–the face of my orphan cousin Ella Werner arises in the brightness of its young beauty, as it used to beam upon me from the latticed window of my home: for her’s, indeed,
“Was a form of life and light,
That seen became a part of sight, And comes where’er I turn mine eye,
The morning star of memory.”
Ella’s mother was sister to my father: she lived but long enough to look upon her child, and her husband died of a broken heart soon after her. Thus the very existence of the fair girl was fatal to those who best loved her–not best, for all living loved her. In after-years it seemed as though it was her beauty, that fatal gift, which ne’er for good was given to many, caused her woe. Ella’s spirit was pure and bright as the eyes through which it beamed–the gladness of her young heart’s happiness rung in the silvery music of her voice, and in the fairy magic of her smile she looked as if sorrow could never dim the golden lustre of her curls, or trace a cloud on her snowy brow–gentle and lovely she was, and that was all. There was no depth of thought, no strength of mind, to form the character of one so gifted. Her faculties for reasoning were the impulses of her own heart: these were generally good, and constituted her principle of action–but changeful as the summer sky are the feelings of the human heart, unswayed by the deeper power of the head. Such were Ella’s, and their power destroyed her. Alas! how calmly can I talk now of her faults; but who could think of them when they looked upon her, and loved her as I did–’tis only since she is gone I discover them.
Of the other members of the family I need not speak, as you already know of them; but there is one whose name you have never heard, for crime and sorrow rest with it, and oblivion shrouds his memory. Conrad Ernstein was also my cousin, and an orphan–he was an inmate of our dwelling, and my mother was to him as a parent. He was some years older, but his delicate constitution and studious mind withdrew him from the others, and made him the companion of Ella and myself. I have said that Ella’s mind was too volatile, so in like degree was Conrad’s, in its deep unchanging firmness and immutability of purpose. Nothing deterred him from the pursuit of any object he engaged in–obstacles but increased his energy to overcome and call forth stronger powers of mind–this was observable in his learning. Science the most abstruse and difficult was his favourite study, and in these he attained an excellence rarely arrived at by one so situated.
Wondered at and admired by all, his pride which was great was amply gratified, and what was evil in his nature was not yet called into being–his disposition was melancholy, and showed none of the joyousness of youth–yet that very sadness seemed to make us love him all the more–his air of suffering asked for pity–’twas strange to see the glad-hearted Ella leave my mother’s side, while she sang to us the songs of the blue Rhine, and bend her sunny brow with him over the ancient page of some clasped volume, containing the terrific legends of the “black forest,” till the tales of the wild huntsmen filled her with dread–then again would she spring to my mother, and burying her head in her bosom, ask her once more to sing the songs of her native land, for so we still called Germany; and, as you see, the romances and legends of that country formed our childhood’s lore, my early love for Ella grew and increased with my years, and I fancied that she loved me.
On the first of May, or, as it was by us styled, “Walburga’s eve,” the young German maidens have a custom of seeking a lonely stream, and flinging on its waters a wreath of early flowers, as an offering to a spirit which then has power. When, as the legend tells, the face of their lover will glide along the water, and the name be borne on the breeze, if the gift be pleasing to the spirit. Ella, I knew, had for some time been preparing to keep this ancient relic of the pagan rites–she had a treasured rose tree which bloomed, unexpectedly, early in the season–these delicate things she fancied would be a fitting offering to the spirit. She paused not to think of what she was about to do–the thing itself was but a harmless folly–from aught of ill her nature would have drawn instinctively; but evil there might have been–she stayed not to weigh the result–at the last hour of sunset she wreathed her roses, and set out. In the lightness of my heart I followed in the same path, intending to surprize her. I heard her clear voice floating on the air, as she sung the invocation to the spirit–the words were these:–
Blue-eyed spirit of balmy spring,
Bright young flowers to thee I bring, Wreaths all tinged with hues divine,
Meet to rest on thy fairy shrine. With these I invoke thy gentle care,
Queen of the earth and ambient air, Come with the light of thy radiant skies, Trace on the stream my true love’s eyes, Show me the face in the silvery deep,
Whose image for aye my heart may keep; Bid the waters echoing shell,
Whisper the name thy breezes tell. And still on the feast of Walburga’s eve, Bright young flowers to thee I’ll give; Beautiful spirit I’ve spoken the spell, And offered the gift thou lovest well.”
The last notes died suddenly away, and Ella, greatly agitated, threw herself into my arms. I enquired the cause of her terror, and forgetting her secrecy, she said a face had appeared to her on the stream. Just then we saw Conrad, who had followed on the same purpose I had, but had fallen and hurt his ancle, and was unable to proceed. He joined not with me when I laughed at Ella’s fright, but a deeper paleness overspread his countenance. Raising his eyes to the heavens, they rested on a star beaming brightly in the blue–its mild radiance seemed to soothe him. See ye yonder, said he, how clear and unclouded the lustre of that shining orb–these words seemed irrelevant, but I knew their meaning. His knowledge of German literature had led him into the mazes of its mingled philosophy and wild romance. Astronomy and astrology were to him the same; the star to which he pointed was what he called the planet of his fate, and its brightness or obscurity were shadowed in his mind–its aspect caused him either joy or woe. The incident of Ella’s fright agitated him much, for the occurrences of this real world were to him all tinged with the supernatural; but he looked again at the heavens, and the mild lustre of the star was reflected in his eyes; he leaned upon my arm, and we passed onward. I knew not then that his dark spirit felt the sunbeams which illumined mine own.
That same balmy evening I stood with Ella by the silver stream which traced its shining path around our home, watching the clear moonbeams as they flashed in the fairy foambells sparkling at our feet. There I first told my love–her hand was clasped in mine–she heard me, and raising her dewy eyes, said, “Dearest Ethel, I love you well; but not as she who weds must love you–be still to me my own dear friend and brother, and Ella will love you as she ever has. Ask not for more.” She left me, and I saw a tear-drop gem the silken braid on her cheek, and thus my dream of beauty burst. My spirit’s light grew dark as the treasured spell which bound me broke. Some hours passed in agony, such as none could feel but those who loved as I did–so deep, so fondly.
As I approached my home the warm evening light was streaming from the windows, and I heard her rich voice thrilling its wild melody. Every brow smiled upon her: even Conrad’s was unbent. I looked upon her, and prayed she might never know a grief like mine. The ringing music of her laugh greeted my entrance, and ere the night had passed she charmed away my woe.
While these things occurred with us, the aspect of the times without had changed. America made war with England. What were her injuries we asked not, but ’twas not likely that we, come of a race who loved so well their “fatherland and king,” would join with those who had risen against theirs. As yet the crisis was not come, and in New York British power was still triumphant.
Among the many festivities given by the officers, naval and military, then in the country, was a splendid ball on board a British frigate then in the harbour. To this scene of magic beauty and delight I accompanied Ella–’twas but a few days after that unhappy first of May; but the buoyant spirits of youth are soon rekindled, and Ella yet, I thought, might love me. The scene was so new, and withal so splendid in its details, that it comes before me now fresh and undimmed. The night was one of summer’s softest, earliest beauty: the moonlight slept upon the still waters, and the tall masts, with all their graceful tracery of spar and line, were bathed with rich radiance, mingled with the hundred lights of coloured lamps, suspended from festoons of flowers; low couches stood along the bulwarks of the noble ship, and the meteor flag of England, which waved so oft amid the battle and the breeze, now wafted its ruby cross o’er fair forms gliding through the dance, to the rich strains of merry music–’twas an hour that sent glad feeling to the heart. The gay dresses and noble bearing of the military officers, all glistening in scarlet and gold, contrasted well with the white robes and delicate beauty of the fair girls by their sides. But they had their rivals in the gallant givers of the fete. Many a lady’s heart was lost that night. “What is it always makes a sailor so dangerous a rival?” Ella used to say, when rallied on her partiality for a “bluejacket,” that she loved it because it was the colour of so many things dear to her: the sky was blue, the waves of the deep mysterious sea were blue, and the wreaths of that fairy flower, which bears the magic name forget-me-not, were of the same charmed hue. Some such reason, I suppose, it is that makes every maiden love a sailor.
While we stood gazing on the scene, enchanted and delighted, one came near and joined our group. Nobility of mind and birth was written on his brow in beauty’s brightest traits. He seemed hardly nineteen, but, young as he was, many a wild breeze had parted the wavy ringlets of his hair, and the salt spray of the ocean raised a deeper hue on his cheek. His light and graceful figure was clad in the becoming costume of his rank, and on his richly braided bosom rested three half blown roses. Ella’s eyes for an instant met his, they fell upon the flowers, and she dropped fainting from my arm. The mystery was soon explained. De Clairville, such was the stranger’s name, had been walking on the cliffs when Ella sought the stream–he heard her voice and approached to see from whence it came–his was the face she had seen upon the waters; he heard her scream, and descended to apologise, but she was gone, and he had found and worn her rose buds–
“Oh! there are looks and tones that dart An instant sunshine through the heart, As if the soul that instant caught
Some treasure it through life had sought; As if the very lips and eyes,
Predestined to have all our sighs, And never be forgot again,
Sparkled and spoke before us then.”
So sings the poet, and so seemed it with Ella and De Clairville; and when the rosy morn, tinging the eastern sky, announced to the revellers the hour of parting, that night of happiness was deemed too short.
To hasten on my story, I must merely say that they became fondly attached, and when De Clairville departed for another station, he left Ella as his betrothed bride. On love such as theirs ‘twould seem to all that heaven smiled; but inscrutable to human eyes are the ways of Providence, for deadly was the blight thrown o’er them.
Meanwhile the events in which the country was engaged drew to a close. England acknowledged the independence of America, and withdrew her forces; but while she did so, offered a home and protection to those who yet wished to claim it. We were among the first to embrace the proposal: and though with sadness we left our sunny home with all its fond remembrances, yet integrity of mind was dearer still. We might not stay in the land with whose institutions we concurred not. Conrad, with his learning and talents, ’twas thought, might remain to seek the path of fame already opening to him; but what to him were the dreams of ambition, compared to the all-engrossing thought which now bound each faculty of his mind beneath its power. Ella, my mother also wished to stay, nor attempt with us the perils of our new life; for here her betrothed, when he returned, expected to meet her; but she flung her arms around my mother, saying in the language of Ruth, “thy home, dearest, shall be mine,” and there shall De Clairville join us. Suffice it, then, to say, that after bidding farewell to scenes we loved, our wearisome voyage was ended, and we landed on these sterile and dreary shores. We dared not venture from the coast, and our abode was chosen in what appeared to us the best of this bleak and barren soil. ‘Twas a sad change, but those were the days of strong hearts and trusting hopes.
Our settlement was formed of six or eight different households, all connected, and all from the neighbourhood of the beautiful Bowery. Each knew what the other had left, and tried to cheer each other with brighter hopes than they hardly dared to feel; but sympathy and kindness were among us.
Why need I tell you of our blighted crops and scanty harvests, and all the toil and trouble which we then endured. I must go on with what I commenced–the story of my own love. Shall I say that when Ella accompanied us I hoped De Clairville might never join us. ‘Tis true, but what were my feelings to discover the love of Conrad for the gem of my heart, and that he cherished it with all the deep strength of his nature. I saw Ella’s manner was not such as became a betrothed maiden, but she feared Conrad, and trembled beneath the dark glance of his eye. A feeling more of fear and pity than of love was her’s; but I was fearful for the result, for I knew he was one not to be trifled with.
The last dreary days of the autumn were gathered round us–the earth was already bound in her frozen sleep, and all nature stilled in her silent trance–all, save the restless waves, dashing on the rocky shore; or the wind, which first curled their crests, and then went sweeping through the wiry foliage of the pines–when, at the close of the short twilight, we were all gathered on the highest point which overlooked the sea, earnestly gazing o’er the dim horizon, where night was coming fast. Ere the sun had set a barque had been seen, and her appearance caused unwonted excitement in our solitudes. Ships in those days were strange but welcome visitants. Not merely the necessaries of life, but kind letters and tidings from distant friends were borne by them. As the darkness increased, signal fires were raised along the beach, and ere long a gun came booming o’er the waters; soon after came the noble ship herself; her white sails gleaming through the night, and the glittering spray flashing in diamond sparkles from her prow. She came to, some distance from the shore, and, as if by magic, every sail was furled. A boat came glancing from her side; a few minutes sent it to the beach, and a gallant form sprung out upon the strand. It was De Clairville come to claim his affianced bride; and with a blushing cheek and tearful eye Ella was once more folded to his faithful heart.
A pang of jealous feeling for an instant darted through me, but Conrad’s face met mine, and its dark expression drove the demon power from me. I saw the withering scowl of hate he cast upon De Clairville, and I inwardly determined to shield the noble youth from the malice of that dark one; for, bright as was to me the hope of Ella’s love, I loved her too well to be ought but rejoiced in her happiness. Although it brought sorrow to myself, yet she was blessed. Mirth and joy, now for a while cheered our lonely homes; we knew we were to lose our flower; but love like theirs is a gladsome thing to look at. Many were the gifts De Clairville brought his bride from the rich shore of England. Bracelets, radiant as her own bright eyes, and pearls as pure as the neck they twined. Among other things was a fairy case of gold, in the form of a locket, which he himself wore. Ella wished to see what it contained, and laughingly he unclosed it before us: ’twas the faded rose leaves of her offerings to the love spirit on Walburga’s eve. They had rested on his heart, he said, in the hours of absence; and there, in death, should they be still. Ella blushed and hid her face upon his bosom. I sighed at the memory of that day, but Conrad’s gloomy frown recalled me to the present–this was their bridal eve. Our pastor was with us, and the lowly building where we worshipped was decorated with simple state for the occasion.
It stood on an eminence some distance from the other houses. That night I was awakened from sleep by a sudden light shining through the room–a wild dream’ was yet before me, and a death snriek seemed ringing in my ears. I looked from the window; our little church was all in flames; ’twas built of rough logs, and was of little value, save that it was hallowed by its use. A fire had-probably been left on to prepare it for the morrow, and from this the mischief had arisen. I thought little about it, and none knew of its destruction till the morn.
The sun rose round and red, and sparkled o’er the glittering sheen of the frost king’s gems, flung in wild symmetry o’er the earth, till all that before looked dark and drear was wreathed with a veil of dazzling beauty; even the blackened logs where the fire had been had their delicate tracery of pearly fringe. The guests assembled in our dwelling, and the pastor stood before the humble altar, raised for the occasion. The walls were rude, but the bride in her young beauty might have graced a palace. She leaned on Conrad’s arm, according to our custom, as her oldest unmarried relative. The tables were spread with the bridal cheer, and the blazing fire crackled merrily on the wide hearth-stone. The bridegroom’s presence alone was waited for. Gaily hung with flags was the ship, and cheers rung loudly from her crew as a boat left her side. It came, but bore but the officers invited to the wedding. Where was De Clairville? None knew! We had expected he passed the night on board; but there he had not been. ‘Twas most strange! The day passed away, and others like it, and still he came not. He was gone for ever. Had he proved false and forsaken his love? Such was the imputation thrown on his absence by Conrad.
The sailors joined us; a band of Indian hunters led the way, and for miles around the woods were searched, but trace of human footsteps, save our own, we saw not. Long did the vessel’s crew linger by the shore, hoping each day for tidings of their loved commander’s fate, but of him they heard no more, and it was deemed he had met his death by drowning.
Conrad, whose morose manner suddenly disappeared for a bold and forward tone, so utterly at variance from his usual that all were surprized, still persisted in asserting that he had but proceeded along the coast, and would join his vessel as she passed onward. One of the sailors, an old and grey-haired man, who loved De Clairville as a son, indignantly denied the charge. He was incapable of such an action. “God grant,” said he, “he may have been fairly dealt with.” “You would not say he had been murdered,” said Conrad. “No,” said the old man, “I thought not of that: if he were, not a leaflet in your woods but would bear witness to the crime.”
We were standing then by the ruined church–a slender beech tree grew beside it–one faded leaf yet hovered on its stem–for an instant it trembled in the blast, then fell at Conrad’s feet, brushing his cheek as it passed. If the blow of a giant had struck him he could not have fallen more heavily to the ground. An inward loathing, such as may mortal man never feel to his fellow, forbade me to assist him. He had fainted; but the cold air soon revived him, and he arose, complaining of sudden illness. The sailors left us, and the ship sailed slowly from our waters, with her colours floating sadly half-mast high.
Ella thus suddenly bereaved, mourned in wild and bitter grief, but woman’s pride, at times her guardian angel, at others her destroyer, took up its stronghold in her heart. The tempter Conrad awoke its tones–with specious wile he recalled De Clairville’s lofty ideas of name and birth–how proudly he spoke of his lady mother and the castled state of his father’s hall. Was it not likely that, at the last, this pride had rallied its strength around him, and bade him seek a nobler bride than the lowly maiden of the “Refugees?” Too readily she heard him, for love the fondest is nearest allied to hate the deepest, and De Clairville’s name became a thing for scorn and hate. ‘Twas vain for me to speak–what could I say? A species of fascination seemed to be obtained by Conrad o’er her–a witching spell was in his words–’twas but the power, swayed by his strong and ill-formed mind, over her weak but gentle one–which, if rightly guided, would have echoed such sweet music–and, ere the summer passed, she had forgotten her lost lover, and was to wed him.
To others there was nothing strange in this, but to me it brought a wild and dreary feeling; not that my early dreams were unchanged, for I had learned to think a love like her’s, so lightly lost and won, was not the thing to be prized. Alas! I knew not the blackness of the spirit that beguiled her, and wrought such woe. Still she had done wrong–the affections of man’s heart may not be idly dealt with–the woman who feigns what she feels not, has her hand on the lion’s mane. Ella at one time had done this, and she reaped a dark guerdon for her falsehood. Yet in her it might have been excused, for the very weakness of her nature led her to it. Let those who are more strongly gifted beware of her fate.
The earth was in the richest flush of her green beauty. On the morn, Ella was again to be a bride–the golden light streamed through the glad blue sky, and all looked bright and fair–the remains of the church, which had long looked black and dreary, were gay with the richness of vegetation–the bracken waved its green plumes, and the tall mullen plant, with its broad white leaves, raised its pale crest above the charred walls. While the dew was shining bright I had gone forth–surprise and consternation greeted my solitary approach when I returned. Again the holy book had been opened–the priest stood ready with the bride, and tarried for the lover–they thought he was with me, but I had not seen him–daylight passed away, night came, but brought him not–the moon arose, and her shadowy light gave to familiar things of day the spectral forms of mystery.
While we sat in silence, thinking of Conrad’s absence, a dog’s mournful whine sounded near–it grew louder, and attracted our attention. We followed the sound–it came from the ruins of the church, and there, among the weeds and flowers lay Conrad stiff and cold–he was dead, and, oh the horrible expression of that face, the demoniac look of despair was never written in such fearful lines on human face before. All felt relief when ’twas covered from the sight. One hand had ‘twined in the death grasp round the reed-like stem of the mullen plant–we unclosed it, and it sprung back, tall and straight as before; something glittered in the other–’twas the half of De Clairville’s golden locket–how it came to be in his possession was strange, but we thought not of it then.
Events like these have a saddening influence on the mind, and the gloom for Conrad’s sudden death hung heavy o’er us–Ella’s mourning was long and deep. I was not grieved to see it, for sorrow makes the spirit wiser.
Three years passed away–little change had been among us, save that some of our aged were gone, and the young had risen around us. Once more it was the first of May–the night was dark and still, but the silvery sounds of the waging earth came like balm o’er the soul–there was a murmur in the forest, as though one heard the song of the young leaves bursting into life, and the glad gushing of the springing streams rose with them. The memory of other days was floating o’er my mind, when a soft voice broke on my reverie. Her thoughts had been with mine–“Ethel,” said she, “remember you, how on such a night as this, you once sought my love. Alas! how little knew I then of my own heart–your’s it should then have been–you know the shades that have passed over it. Is Ella’s love a worthless gift, or will you accept it now as freely as ’tis offered. How long and sternly must we be trained e’er love’s young dream can be forgotten.” The events that intervened all passed away, and Ella was again the same maiden that stood with me so long ago by the streamlet’s side on Walburga’s eve. My heart’s long silenced music once more rung forth its melody at her sweet words, and life again was bright with the gems of hope and fond affection.
In places so lone as that in which we lived, the fancies of superstition have ample scope to range. It had long been whispered through the settlement that the spirit of Conrad appeared on the spot where he had died at certain times. When the moon beamed, a shadowy form was seen to wave its pale arms among the ruins of the church, which yet remained unchanged. So strongly was the story believed, that after night-fall none dared to pass the spot alone. Ella, too, had heard it, and trembled whilst she disbelieved its truth. Our marriage morning came, and Ella was for the third time arrayed in her bridal dress. A wreath of pearl gleamed through her hair, and lace and satin robed her peerless form–the tinge upon her cheek might not have been so bright as once it was, but to me she was lovely–more of mind was blended with the feelings of the heart, and gave a higher tone to her beauty. The holy words were said, and my fondest hopes made truth. Is it, that because in our most blissful hours the spirits are most ready fall, or was it the sense of coming ill that threw its dreary shade of sadness o’er me all that day? The glorious sun sunk brightly to his rest, but the rose cloud round his path seemed deepened to the hue of blood. A wailing sound came o’er the waters, and a whispering, as of woe, sighed through the leafy trees. This feeling of despondency I tried in vain to banish; as the evening came, it grew deeper, but Ella was more joyous than ever, for a long time, she had been. All the fairy wiles of her winning youth seemed bright as of old–glad faces were around us, and she was the gayest of them all; when, suddenly, something from the open door met her eyes–one loud shriek broke from her, and she rushed wildly from among us. I saw her speed madly up the hill, where stood the church. I was hastening after, when strong arms held me back, and fingers, trembling with awe and dread, pointed to the object of their terror–there among the ruins stood a tall and ghost-like form, whose spectral head seemed to move with a threatening motion–for an instant I was paralysed, but Ella’s white robes flashed before me, and I broke from their grasp. Again I heard her shriek–she vanished from me, but the phantom form still stood. I reached it, and that thing of fear was but a gigantic weed–a tall mullen that had outgrown the others on the very spot where we had found the body of Conrad; the waving of its flexile head and long pale leaves, shining with moonlight, were the motions we had seen–but where was Ella? The decaying logs gave way beneath her, and she had fallen into a vault or cellar beneath the building. Meanwhile those at the house recovered their courage, and came towards us, bearing lights. We entered the vault, and, on her knees before a figure, was Ella–the form and dress were De Clairville’s, such as we had seen him in last, but the face, oh! heaven, the face showed but the white bones of a skeleton. The rich brown curls still clung to the fleshless skull, and on the finger glittered the ring with which Ella was to have been wed. The half of the golden locket was clasped to his breast–the ribbon by which it hung seemed to have been torn rudely from its place, but the hand had kept its hold till the motion caused by our descent–it fell at Ella’s feet, a sad memento of other days, and recalled her to sensation. Horror paled the brows of all, but to me was given a deeper woe, to think and know what Ella must have felt.
Every feeling was deepened to intensity of agony in the passing of that night–that dreary closing of my bridal day. How came the morning’s light I know not, but when it did, the fresh breeze blew on my brow, and I saw the remains of De Clairville lying on the grass before me–they had borne him from below, and it showed more plainly the crime which had been among us. The deep blue of the dress was changed to a darker hue where the red life blood had flowed, and from the back was drawn the treacherous implement of death. The hearts of all readily whispered the murderer’s name, and fuller proof was given in that ancient dagger that had long been an heir-loom in the family of Conrad–a relic of the old Teutonic race from whence they sprung–well was it known, and we had often wondered at its disappearance. He, Conrad, was the murderer–he had slain De Clairville, and fired the building to conceal his crime. God was the avenger of the dark deed–the mighty hand of conscience struck him in his proudest hour–the humblest things of earth, brought deathly terror to his soul. ‘Twas evident the appearance of the mullen plant, which drew us to the spot, had been the cause of his death. The words of the old sailor seemed true. The lowly herb had brought the crime to light, and in the hand of heaven had punished the murderer.
We buried De Clairville beneath a mossy mound, where the lofty pine and spicy cedar waved above, and hallowed words were said o’er his rest. A blight seemed to hover o’er our lonely settlement by the deed which had been done within it. Nothing bound us to the spot; but hues of sadness rested with it, and ever would. ‘Twas an unhallowed spot, and we prepared to leave it, and seek another resting place.
Our boats lay ready by the beach, and some were already embarked. I took a last look around–something white gleamed among the trees around De Clairville’s grave–’twas Ella, who lay there dead. She always accused herself as the cause of De Clairville’s death, and indirectly, too, she had been–but restitution now was made. We laid her by his side, and thus I lost my early, only love.
Here then was it where we chose our heritage, and here we have since remained, but everything is changed since then. Many an aged brow has passed from earth, and many a bright eye closed in death. Every trace of old is passing away, save where their shadows glide in the memory. Even the grave where Ella slept is gone from earth.
Twenty years after her death I made a pilgrimage to the place–the young sapling pines which shaded it had grown to lofty trees–human voice seemed never to have broken in tones of joy or woe the deep solitude around–the long grass waved rank and dark above the walls we had raised, and the red berries hung rich and ripe by the ruined hearthstone. Again, when another twenty years passed, I came to it once more–the weight of age had gathered o’er me, but there lay the buried sunlight of my youth, and the spirit thoughts of other days drew me to it. Again there was a change–a change which told me my own time drew near. The woods were gone long since–the reaper had passed o’er the lowly graves, and knew them not. The last record of my love and of my woe, was gone. Dwellings were raised along the lonely beach, and laden ships floated on the long silent waters. I bade the place farewell for ever, and returned to await in peace and hope my summons to the promised rest.
The old man paused–the dreams of the past had weakened him, and he retired for the night. Next morn we waited long for his presence, but he came not. We sought his chamber, and found him dead. The soul had passed away–one hand was folded on his heart, and oh! the might of earthly love. It clasped a shining braid of silken hair, and something, of which their faint perfume told to be the faded rose leaves–frail memorials of his fondly loved Ella, but lasting after the warm heart which cherished them was cold. He was gone where, if it be not in heaven “a crime to love too well,” his spirit may yet meet with her’s, in that holy light, whose purity of bliss may not be broken by the vain turmoil of earthly feelings. So ends the story of uncle Ethel.
* * * * *
Well, said Grace, after we had discussed Ethel’s melancholy story, although I don’t believe in ghosts, I cannot do away with my faith in dreams, and last night I had a most disagreeable one, which disturbed me much. I thought I had engaged my passage, and when I unclosed my purse to pay down the money, nothing was in it but a plain gold ring and a ruby heart. My money was gone, and, oh! the grief I felt was deeper than waking language can describe. Then, Grace, said I, you must receive consolation for your disagreeable dream, in the words of your own favourite song, “Rory o’More,” that dreams always go by contrary you know, and so I shall read your dream. The plain gold ring means that tie, which, like it, has no ending. The heart has, in all ages, been held symbolical of its holiest feeling, and thus unite love and marriage, and your sorrow will be turned to joy. So I prognosticate your dream to mean. And time told I had foretold aright–for soon after we had arrived in St. John’s, the entrance to which, from the main river, is extremely beautiful, showing every variety of scenery, from the green meadows of rich intervale, where stand white dwellings and orchard trees, to the grey and barren rocks, with cedary plumage towering to the sky.
Grace having engaged her passage home, we were turning from the office, when a stranger bounded to us, and caught her by the hand. Grace Marley, he exclaimed–my own, my beautiful. I felt her lean heavily on my arm; she had fainted. And so deep was that trance, we fancied she was gone–but joy rarely kills, and she awoke to the passionate exclamations of her lover–for such he was, come o’er the deep sea to seek her. An explanation ensued. Their letters to each other had all miscarried. None had been received by either. (All this bitter disappointment, however, happened before the establishment of our post.) So Grace, instead of returning to Ireland, was wedded next day, her husband having brought means with him to settle in the country. The magician, Love, flung his rose-light o’er her path, and, when I saw her last, she fancied the emerald glades of Oromot, where her home now lay, almost as beautiful as those by the blue lakes of Killarney, in the land of her birth.
With the end of September commence the night frosts. The woods now lose their greenness; and the most brilliant hues of crimson, and gold, and purple, are flung in gorgeous flakes of beauty over their boughs, as though each leaf were crystal, and reflected and retained the light of some glorious sunset. In this lovely season, which is most appropriately termed the fall, we wished to _get along_ with our church, and have it enclosed before the winter. This was rather an arduous undertaking in young settlement like ours; but there were those here who loved
“Old England’s holy church,
And loved her form of prayer right well.”
And liberally they came forward to raise a temple to their faith in the wilderness. The “Society for the Propagation of the Gospel in Foreign Lands” had promised assistance; but the frame must first be erected and enclosed ere it could be claimed. In this country cash is a most scarce commodity, and many species of speculation are made with the aid of little real specie. Large sums are spoken of, but rarely appear bodily: and our church got on in the same way. The owner of the saw-mill signed twenty pounds as his subscription towards it, and paid it in boards–the carpenters who did the work received from the subscribers pork and flour for their pay–and our neighbour, the embarrassed lumber-man, who was still wooden-headed enough to like anything of a _timber spec_, got out the frame by contract, himself giving most generously five pounds worth of work towards it. And thus the church was raised, and now it stands, with white spire, pointing heavenward, above the ancient forest trees.
As winter was now approaching, how to pass its long evenings agreeably and rationally was a question which was agitated. The dwellers of America are more enlightened now than in those old times when dancing and feasting were the sole amusements, so a library was instituted and formed by the same means as the church had been–a load of potatoes, or a barrel of buckwheat, being given by each party to purchase books with. The selection of these, to suit all tastes, was a matter of some difficulty, the grave and serious declaiming against light reading, and regarding a novel as the climax of human wickedness. One old lady, who by the way was fond of reading, and had studied the ancient tale of Pamela regularly, at her leisure, for the last forty years, was the strongest against these, and, on being told that her favourite tome was no less than a novel, she consigned it to oblivion, and seemed, for a time, to have lost all faith in sublunary things. After some little trouble, however, the thing was satisfactorily arranged. Even here, to this lone nook of the western world, had reached the fame of the Caxtons of modern times. Aught that bore the name of Chambers, had a place in our collection, and the busy fingers of the little Edinburgh ‘devils’ have brightened the solitude of many a home on the banks of the Washedemoak.
The Indian summer, which, in November, comes like breathing space, ere the mighty power of winter sweeps o’er the earth, is beautiful, with its balmy airs and soft bright skies, yet melancholy in its loveliness as a fair face in death–’tis the last smile of summer, and when the last wreath of crimson leaves fall to earth, the erratic birds take their flight to warmer lands–the bear retires to his hollow tree–the squirrel to his winter stores–and man calls forth all his genius to make him independent of the storm king’s power. In this country we have a specimen of every climate at its utmost boundary of endurance; in summer we have breathless days of burning heat shining on in shadowless splendour of sunlight; but it is in the getting up of a winter’s scene that New Brunswick is perfect. True, a considerable tall sample of a snow-storm can sometimes be enjoyed in England, but nothing to compare with the free and easy sweep with which the monarch of clouds flings his boons over this portion of his dominions. After the first snow-storm the woods have a grand and beautiful appearance, festooned with their garlands of feathery pearls–the raindrops which fall with the earlier snows hang like diamond pendants, and flash in the sun, “As if gems were the fruitage of every bough.”
I remember once coming from St. John’s by water. The frost set in rather earlier than we expected. The farther from the sea the sooner it commences; so as we proceeded up the river our boat was stopped by the crystal barrier across the stream, not strong enough yet to admit of teaming, and we had nothing for it but a walk of seven miles through the forest,–home we must proceed, though evening was closing in and darkness would soon be around us, the heavy atmosphere told of a coming storm, and ere to-morrow our path would be blocked up. America is the land of invention; and here we were, on the dreary shore, in the dusky twilight–a situation which requires the aid of philosophy. We were something in the predicament of the Russian sailors in Spitzbergen, we wanted light to guide us on the “blaze,” without which we could not keep it; but beyond the gleam of a patent congreve, our means extended not. One of our company, however, a native of the country, took the matter easy. Some birch trees were growing near, from which he stripped a portion of the silvery bark, which being rolled into torches, were ignited; each carried a store, and by their brilliant light we set out on our pilgrimage. The effect of our most original Bude on the snow-wreathed forest was magical–we seemed to traverse the palace gardens of enchantment, so strange yet splendid was the scene–the snow shining pure in the distance, and the thousand ice gems gleaming ruby red in the rays of our torches. They are wondrous to walk through, those boundless forests, when one thinks that by a slight deviation from the track the path would be lost; and, ere it could be found again, the spirit grow weary in its wanderings, and, taking its flight, leave the unshrouded brows to bleach on summer flowers or winter snows, in the path where the graceful carraboo bounds past, or the bear comes guided by the tainted breeze to where it lies.
It was on this midnight ramble that the facts of the following lines were related to me, ending not, as such tales generally do, in death, but in what perchance was worse,–civilisation lost in barbarism.
Many years ago two children, daughters of a person residing in this province, were lost in the woods. What had been their fate none knew –no trace of them could be found until, after a long period of time had elapsed, one of them was discovered among some Indians, by whom they had been taken, and with whom this one had remained, the other having joined another tribe. She appeared an Indian squaw in every respect–her complexion had been stained as dark as theirs–her costume was the same, but she had blue eyes. This excited suspicion, which proved to be correct. The story of the lost children was remembered, which event occurred thirty years before. With some difficulty she was induced to meet her mother, her only remaining parent. The tide of time swept back from the mother’s mind, and she hastened to embrace the child of her memory, but, alas! the change. There existed for her no love in the bosom of the lost one. Her relatives wishing to reclaim her from her savage life, earnestly besought her to remain with them, but their ways were not as her’s–she felt as a stranger with them, and rejoined the Indian band, with whom she still remains.
THE LOST CHILDREN.
At early morn a mother stood,
Her hands were raised to heaven. And she praised Almighty God
For the blessings He had given;
But far too deep were they
Encircled in her heart,–
Too deep for human weal,
For earth and love must part.
She looked with hope too bright
On the forms that by her bent,
And loved, by far too fondly,
Those treasures God had sent.
They bound her to the earth,
With love’s own golden chain,
How were its bright links severed By the spirit’s wildest pain?
She parted the rich tresses,
And kissed each snowy brow,
And where, oh! happy mother,
Was one so blest as thou?
The summer sun was shining
All cloudless o’er the lea,
When forth her children bounded,
In childhood’s summer glee.
They strayed along the woody banks, All fringed with sunny green,
Where, like a silver serpent,
The river ran between.
Their glad young voices rose,
As they thought of flower or bird, And they sang the joyous fancies
That in each spirit stirred.
Oh! sister, see that humming bird; Saw ye ever ought so fair?
With wings of gold and ruby,
He sparkles through the air;
Let us follow where he flies
O’er yonder hazel dell,
For oh! it must be beautiful
Where such a thing can dwell.
Yet to me it seemeth still,
That his rest must be on high;
Methinks his plumes are bathed
In the even’s crimson sky:
How lovely is this earth,
Where such fair things we see,
And yet how much more glorious
The power that bids them be!
Nay, sister, let us stay
Where those water lilies float,
So spotless and so pure
Like a fairy’s pearly boat.
Listen to the melody
That cometh soft and low,
As through the twining tendrils
The water glides below.
Perchance ’twas in a spot like this, And by a stream as mild,
Where the Jewish mother laid
Her gentle Hebrew child.
Then rested they beneath the trees, Where, through the leafy shade,
In ever-changing radiance,
The broken sun-light played;
And spoke in words, whose simple truth Revealed the guileless soul,
Till softly o’er their senses
A quiet slumber stole.
Lo! now a form comes glancing
Along the waters blue,
And moored among the lilies
Lay an Indian’s dark canoe.
The days of ancient feud were gone. The axe was buried deep.
And stilled the red man’s warfare, In unawaking sleep.
Why stands he then so silently,
Where those fair children lie?
And say, what means the flashing
Of the Indian’s eagle eye?
He thinks him of his lonely spouse, Within her forest glade;
Around her silent dwelling
No children ever played.
No voice arose to greet him
When he at eve would come,
But sadness ever hovered
Around his dreary home.
Oh! with those lovely rose-buds
Were my lone hearth-stone blest, My richest food should cheer them,
My softest furs should rest.
Their kindred drive us onward,
Where the setting sunbeams shine; They claim our father’s heritage,
Why may not these be mine?
He raised the sleeping children,
Oh! sad and dreary day!
And o’er the dancing waters
He bore them far away.
He wiled their hearts’ young feelings With words and actions kind,
And soon the past went fading
All dream-like from their mind.
* * * * *
Oh! brightly sped the beaming sun
Along his glorious way,
And feathery clouds of golden light Around his parting lay.
In beauty came the holy stars,
All gleaming mid the blue,
It seemed as o’er the lovely earth A blessed calm they threw.
A sound of grief arose
On the dewy evening air,
It bore the bitter anguish
Of a mortal’s wild despair;
A wail like that which sounded
Throughout Judea’s land,
When Herod’s haughty minions
Obeyed his dark command.
The mourning mother wept
Because her babes were not,
Their forms were gone for ever
From each familiar spot.
Oh! had they sought the river,
And sunk beneath its wave;
Or had the dark recesses
Of the forest been their grave.
The same deep tinge of sorrow,
Each surmise ever bore;
Her gems from her were taken;
Of their fate she knew no more.
Long years of withering woe went on, Each sadly as the last,
To other’s ears the theme became
A legend of the past.
But she, oh! bright she cherished Their memory enshrined,
With all a mother’s fondness
And fadeless truth entwined.
Many a hope she treasured
In sorrow’s gloom had burst,
But still her spirit knew
No grieving like the first.
Along her faded forehead
The hand of time had crost,
And every furrow told
Her mourning for the lost.
With such deep love within her,
What words the truth could give, Howe’er she heard the tidings–
“Thy children yet they live.”
But one alone was near,
And with rushing feelings wild,
The aged mother flew
To meet once more her child.
A moment passed away–
The lost one slowly came,
And stood before her there–
A tall and dark-browed dame.
Far from her swarthy forehead
Her raven hair was roll’d;
She spoke to those around her,
Her voice was stern and cold:
“Why seek ye here to bind me,
I would again be free;
They say ye are my kindred–
But what are ye to me?
My spring of youth was past
With the people of the wild:
And slumber in the green-wood
My husband and my child.
‘Tis true I oft have seen ye
In the visions of the night;
But many a shadow comes
From the dreamer’s land of light. If e’er I’ve been among ye,
Save in my wandering thought,
The memory has passed away–
Ye long have been forgot.”
And were not these hard words to come To that fond mother’s heart,
Who through such years of agony
Had kept her loving part.
Her wildest wish was granted–
Her deepest prayer was heard–
Yet it but served to show her
How deeply she had err’d.
The mysteries of God’s high will
May not be understood;
And mortals may not vainly ask,
To them, what seemeth good.
With spirit wrung to earth,
In grief she bowed her head:
“Oh! better far than meet thee thus, To mourn thee with the dead.”
But, think ye, He who comforted
The widowed one of Nain–
Who bade the lonely Hagar
With hope revive again?
Think ye that mother’s trusting love Should bleed without a balm?
No! o’er the troubled spirit
There came a blessed calm.
Amid the savage relics
Around her daughter flung,
Upon her naked bosom
A crucifix there hung.
And though the simple Indian
False tenets might enthral–
Yet, ’twas the blessed symbol
Of Him who died for all.
And the mourner’s heart rejoiced
For the promise seemed to say–
She shall be thine in Heaven,
When the world has passed away.
Tho’ now ye meet as strangers,
Yet there ye shall be one;
And live in love for ever,
When time and earth are gone.
In the days of the early settling of the country, marriages were attended with a ceremony called stumping. This was a local way of publishing the banns, the names of the parties and the announcement of the event to take place being written on a slip of paper, and inserted on the numerous stumps bordering the corduroy road, that all who ran might read, though perchance none might scan it save some bewildered fox or wandering bear; the squire read the ceremony from the prayer-book, received his dollar, and further form for wedlock was required not. Now they order these things differently. A wedding is a regular frolic, and generally performed by a clergyman (though a few in the back settlements still adhere to the custom of their fathers), a large party being invited to solemnise the event. The last winter we were in the country we attended one some distance from home; but here, while flying along the ice paths, distance is not thought of. Nothing can be more exhilarating than sleigh-riding, the clear air bracing the nerves, and the bells ringing gladly out. These bells are worn round the horse’s neck and on the harness, to give warning of the sleigh’s approach, which otherwise would not be heard over the smooth road. The glassy way was crowded with skaters, gliding past with graceful ease and folded arms, “as though they trod on tented ground.” We soon reached our destination, and found assembled a large and joyous party. The festival commenced in the morning, and continued late. The fare was luxuriant, and the bride, in her white dress and orange blossoms (for, be it known, such things are sometimes seen, even in this region of spruce and pine), looked as all brides do, bashful and beautiful. The “grave and pompous father,” and busy-minded mother, had a look which, though concealed, told that at heart they rejoiced to see their “bairn respeckit like the lave,” and “all indeed went merry as a marriage bell.” We and some others left at midnight. The air was piercingly cold, and the bear skins in which we were wrapped soon had a white fringe, where fell the fast congealing breath. There was no moon, and the stars looked dim, in the fitful gleam of the streamers of the aurora borealis, which were glancing in corruscations of awful grandeur along the heavens, now throwing a blood red glare on the snow, their pale sepulchral rays of green or blue imparting a ghastly horror to the scene, or arranging themselves like the golden pillars of some mighty organ, while, ever and again, a wild unearthly sound is heard, as if swords were clashing. Those mysterious northern lights, whose appearance in superstitious times was supposed to threaten, or be the forerunner, of dire calamity; and no wonder was it, for even now, with all the light science has thrown upon such things, there is attached to them, seen as they are in this country, a feeling of dread which cannot all be dispelled.
Travelling on the ice is not altogether free from danger; and even when it is thought safe, there are places where it is dangerous to go. The best plan of avoiding these is to follow the track of those who have gone before–never, but with caution, and especially at night, striking out a new one.
One of the parties who accompanied us wished to reach the shore. There was a path which, though rather longer, would have led him safely to it, but he determined to strike across the unmarked ice, to where be wished to land. All advised him to take the longer way, but he was resolute, and turned his horse’s head from us. The gallant steed bounded forward–the golden light was beaming from the sky–and we paused to watch his progress. A fearful crashing was heard–then a sharp crack, and sleigh, horse, and rider vanished from our sight. ‘Twas horrible to see them thus enclosed in that cold tomb.
Assistance was speedily sought from the shore, but ere it came I heard the horrid shout of “steeds that snort in agony,” while the blue sulphurous flash from above showed the man struggling helplessly among the breaking ice. Poles were placed from the solid parts to where he was, and he was rescued. He was carried to the nearest house, and with some difficulty restored to warmth. The sleighing rarely passes without many such accidents occurring, merely through want of caution.
When the balmy breezes of spring again blew ever New Brunswick, circumstances had arisen which induced me to leave it, and though I loved it not as my native land, I sighed to go, so much of kindness and good feeling had I enjoyed among its dwellers; and I stood on the vessel’s deck, gazing on it till the green trees and white walls of Partridge-Island faded in the distance, and the rolling waves of the Bay of Fundy, throwing me into that least terrestrial of all maladies, the “mal du mer,” rendered me insensible of all sublunary cares.