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 gra.s.sy 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 pa.s.sion 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 sh.o.r.e.

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 b.l.o.o.d.y field--the war dance--all the pomp of savage life pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sion 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 cl.u.s.ters 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 b.u.t.ter 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 pa.s.s 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 sh.o.r.e--the light fair breeze scarce stirred the ripples on the stream--when, from one of the white dwellings on the beach in whose cas.e.m.e.nt 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 ma.s.s 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 pa.s.sed 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 ent.i.tled

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 pa.s.sed, 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 a.s.sumed 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 cla.s.sic 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 pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sed 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 sanct.i.ty 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 a.s.sembled there. Alas! long years have pa.s.sed 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.