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 pa.s.sage, 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 pa.s.sage 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 pa.s.sionate 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 a.s.sistance; 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 embarra.s.sed 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 pa.s.s 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 amus.e.m.e.nts, so a library was inst.i.tuted 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 s.p.a.ce, 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 sh.o.r.e, 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 G.o.d 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 G.o.d 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 pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sed 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 G.o.d'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 pa.s.sed 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 gla.s.sy 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 a.s.sembled 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 superst.i.tious 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 sh.o.r.e. 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.

a.s.sistance was speedily sought from the sh.o.r.e, 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 pa.s.ses without many such accidents occurring, merely through want of caution.