Mrs. Barton kept her eyes downcast on her child, and made no reply.

"Now," continued Mr. Morris, "what use or pleasure there can be in lugging children from Dan to Beersheba, is more than I can imagine."

"G.o.d knows, I do not travel for the pleasure of it," meekly replied the poor woman.

"Oh, no, no--I dare say not--I dare say not"--said Mr. Morris, who had whiffed away his pet with the first breath. "You are of another sort.

But, pray, my friend, what are you travelling for?"

"To join my husband at Quebec."

"Your husband at Quebec--and you here! how the deuce came that about?"

"My child has fallen asleep," replied Mrs. Barton, turning to Mrs. Sackville; "and if you, ma'am, will condescend to hear the cause of my being here--there is no reason that I should be loath to tell it; only you know, ma'am, one does not like to be forward about speaking of troubles to strangers--and those so kind as you, it seems like begging, which I am not forward to do."

Mrs. Sackville a.s.sured Mrs. Barton, that she felt great interest in knowing how she came into her present circ.u.mstances.

"My husband," she said, "was a corporal in the fortieth ----. We were in Spain through all Wellington's campaigns, and had just crossed the Pyrennees into France, and were thinking of going home to England again, when the regiment was ordered to America. This was no great disappointment to me--I have no known relation in the world but my husband and child--then I had but the one. My husband is a sober man, who fears G.o.d and serves his king with all his heart: and his pay with my earnings, (for I did up all the linen of our officers) furnished us a decent living. When we arrived at Quebec, our regiment was sent into Upper Canada.

"Soon after we came to Newark, a detachment from the De Watteville regiment was ordered to make an attack on Fort Erie. In this detachment was a corporal, a great friend to us, who once saved my boy from drowning. At the moment he was ordered off, he had a child seemingly at the last gasp. The poor man was distracted like, and my husband, who had that tender heart that he could never bide to look on misery, offered to go as his subst.i.tute, and he went. You've doubtless heard of the sortie of Erie: that dreadful night my husband was taken prisoner. He got a letter written to me from Buffalo, to tell me all his ill-fortune. He had been mistaken by some American soldiers for a deserter from the American army; and not being with his own regiment when he was taken, or even among his acquaintance, he could not prove who he was. He had been ironed, and was to be taken to Greenbush, near Albany.

"He entreated me to procure from his captain, the necessary papers to prove that he was a true man, and to forward them to him. Our captain was a great friend to us; he gave me the writings, and I determined myself to go to Greenbush. I met with some troubles, and much kindness by the way. The people in your States, ma'am, are the freest and the kindest I have ever seen. They seemed to me like G.o.d's stewards, always ready to open their storehouses to the naked and hungry. I had money enough to pay for my boy's riding the most of the way; for myself I seldom felt weary, but pressed on beyond my strength; still I did not feel it till I got to Greenbush, and was told my husband had escaped from confinement the week before. Whither he had gone, no one knew, but all told me that if he was not retaken, he had probably reached Canada.

"I would have come straight home again, but my strength was utterly gone. I have not much recollection from this time: I remember having a fear that they would take my boy from me, but all seems as a dream, till I came to myself two months after in the alms-house in Albany. From that time I remained in a low wretched state, for four months, when this poor baby was born into this world of trouble."

Here the poor woman gave way to a burst of tears, which seemed to be a relief to her full heart; for afterwards, she proceeded with more composure. "Many months pa.s.sed before I was able to do any thing for myself. It pleased G.o.d to hear my prayer for patience; and though I was often without any hope that times would ever mend with me, I was kept from fretting. You are very kind to feel for me, but I will not tire you with all my ups and downs for the last three years. I have sent many letters into Canada, but have never received any return. My heart sometimes misgives me, and I think my husband has gone to Europe--or maybe is dead."

"But, why," asked Mrs. Sackville, "have you remained so long in the States?"

"O, ma'am, I was afraid to undertake the journey with my poor baby, who has always been but delicate, and I was determined not to leave Albany, where I had made many kind friends, till I had earned something to help us on our journey. I know how to turn my hands to almost any kind of work; and the last year has prospered so well with me, that when I left Albany I had forty dollars. At Buffalo my poor baby was taken down; and I have been obliged to spend ten dollars; with the rest I hope to get to Quebec; and if worst comes to worst, I may there find friends to send me to Europe."

The poor woman's story was not one of unparalleled misfortunes, but it was unusually interesting to her hearers--there was so much resolution and mildness blended in her countenance, such perfect cleanliness in her coa.r.s.e apparel, and such an evident solicitude to avoid any exaggeration, or even display of her troubles, that could be an appeal to the charity of her auditors, that when she concluded, they felt convinced of her merit, and deeply interested in her welfare. They were now arrived at the inn, where they were to await the children, who arrived in the course of an hour, heated and dusty--but declaring they had never a more delightful walk.

"Lord bless you, Miss," exclaimed Mrs. Barton, "you've heated yourself to that degree, that the blood seems ready to burst from your cheeks. I shall never forgive myself if you get sick by it."

"Oh never fear," replied Julia, "I did not feel the heat at all."

"But there is such a thick sickly feeling in the air to-day."

"Sickly feeling," exclaimed Edward, "I am sure I thought the air was never fresher and sweeter."

"You can now understand," said Mrs. Sackville, speaking in a low voice to her children, "the charm of the ring in the Fairy tale, bestowed by the benevolent Genius; which whenever worn, produced a clear sky, a smooth path and fragrant air. There is a happiness, my dear children, in the simplest act of genuine kindness, which is much more than a compensation for the loss of any gratification of taste. The relief of this poor woman, and the sweet sleep into which her child has been lulled by the motion of the carriage, have quite reconciled me to the delay of the sight of the Falls; for which I confess I began to feel a little but here comes your uncle, full of concern about something."

Mr. Morris entered the room in great perturbation. "Here is a pretty spot of work," said he. "I believe in my soul, Mrs. Barton, that that scamp Tristy has gone off with your bundle."

"Gone off with it!--G.o.d forbid!" exclaimed the poor woman,--"my money was all in it."

"Oh uncle," said Edward, "he has not gone off with it;--he laid himself down under a tree in the wood just back, and said he would follow on as soon as he had rested him."

"Rested him! a mere pretence to get rid of you--you should have had more discretion than to have trusted him, Ned;--but when was ever discretion found in a boy?"

"But what reason, brother, have you to think he has gone off?" asked Mrs. Sackville.

Mr. Morris said there had a man just come over the road, of whom he had inquired if he had seen him:--he had not, but he was certain he should have observed him if he had been by the road side. Mr. Morris had despatched a servant on horseback in pursuit of him, and he begged Mrs. Barton to calm herself till his return.

The poor woman's agitation could not be allayed as easily as it had been excited:--she said nothing; but she became as pale as death, and trembled so excessively, that Mrs. Sackville took her child from her arms and laid it on a bed.

Mr. Morris's compa.s.sion once excited, was never stinted. "Bless you, woman," he whispered to Mrs. Barton, "don't tremble so. If the little imp has really made off, your loss shall be made up to you. Come, cheer up--I have engaged a place for you and your children in a return carriage, and you will all be in Newark to-night, safe and snug."

"G.o.d bless you, sir," replied Mrs. Barton. "I am ashamed of myself; but my courage and strength seem quite spent."

At this instant, Edward, who had gone out on the first notice of the boy's delinquency, returned, shouting, "He's coming, he's coming;" and directly the messenger made his appearance with the wallet unharmed, and followed by Tristram, who came doggedly on muttering, "that it was a poor reward for lugging the old woman's bundle to be hunted for a thief."

"Stop your clamor, Tristy," said Mr. Morris, "the devil shall have his due; there is a shilling for you, which is full as much as your character is worth."

"I don't know as to that," replied the boy, pocketing the shilling: "those that have much character can do as they please, but I have so little, that I set a high price on it."

The carriage was now ready in which Mrs. Barton was to proceed, and her friends saw her depart cheered and comforted by their kindness, and themselves enriched by the opportunity they had improved of imitating our heavenly Benefactor by 'raising the sinking heart, and strengthening the knees that were ready to fail.'

After our travellers were again on their way, Mr. Morris said he did not at all like Tristram's look, when he said Goody Barton would remember him the next time she felt the weight of her wallet. "The little rascal said too, that he had changed his mind, and was going back to the States--putting that and that together, I am afraid his evil fingers have been inside the poor woman's bundle."

Julia was sure he could not be so wicked--she had herself observed the bundle, and that it was very nicely sewed.

Mrs. Sackville hoped and believed that there was no harm done to the poor woman's property; and the concern of the party for their protegee, gradually gave place to their admiration of the beauties of their ride, and the animated expectation of seeing the Falls.

Edward declared that his ears already began to tingle,--and after they pa.s.sed Chippewa, Julia resolutely shut her eyes, for fear of having the first impression weakened by the imperfect glimpses that could be caught of the cataract from the road.

We hope our young readers do not think us so presumptuous as to attempt to give them a description of the Falls of Niagara; one of the sublimest spectacles with which this fair earth is embellished. Neither can we attempt to define the emotions of our travellers. We find in Edward's and Julia's journals, noted with an accuracy and taste that does them great credit, all the const.i.tuent parts of this great whole--a poet or a painter might perhaps weave them into a beautiful picture.

The vehement dashing of the rapids--the sublime falls--the various hues of the ma.s.s of waters--the snowy whiteness, and the deep bright green--the billowy spray that veils in deep obscurity the depths below--the verdant island that interposes between the two falls, half veiled in a misty mantle, and placed there, it would seem, that the eye and the spirit may repose on it--the little island on the brink of the American fall, that looks amidst the commotion of the waters like the sylvan vessel of a woodland nymph gaily sailing onward; or as if the wish of the Persian girl were realized, and the 'little isle _had_ wings;'--a thing of life and motion that the spirit of the waters had inspired.

The profound caverns with their overarching rocks--the quiet habitations along the margin of the river--peaceful amid all the uproar, as if the voice of the Creator had been heard, saying "It is I, be not afraid."--The green hill, with its graceful projections, that skirts and overlooks Table-rock--the deep and bright verdure of the foliage--every spear of gra.s.s that penetrates the crevices of the rocks, gemmed by the humid atmosphere, and sparkling in the sun-beams--the rainbow that rests on the mighty torrent--a symbol of the smile of G.o.d upon his wondrous work.

"What is it, mother?" asked Edward, as he stood with his friends on Table-rock, where they had remained gazing on the magnificent scene for fifteen minutes without uttering a syllable, "what is it, mother, that makes us all so silent?"

"It is the spirit of G.o.d moving on the face of the waters--it is this new revelation to our senses of his power and majesty which ushers us, as it were, into his visible presence, and exalts our affections above language.

"What, my dear children, should we be, without the religious sentiment that is to us as a second sight, by which we see in all this beauty the hand of the Creator; by which we are permitted to join in this hymn of nature; by which, I may say, we are permitted to enter into the joy of our Lord? Without it we should be like those sheep, who are at this moment grazing on the verge of this sublime precipice, alike unconscious of all these wonders, and of their divine Original. This religious sentiment is in truth, Edward, that promethean fire that kindles nature with a living spirit, infuses life and expression into inert matter, and invests the mortal with immortality." Mrs. Sackville's eye was upraised, and her countenance illumined with a glow of devotion that harmonized with the scene. "It is, my dear children," she continued, "this religious sentiment, enlightened and directed by reason, that allies you to external nature, that should govern your affections, direct your pursuits, exalt and purify your pleasures, and make you feel, by its celestial influence, that the kingdom is within you; but," she added smiling, after a momentary pause, "this temple does not need a preacher."

"Perhaps not," said Mr. Sackville; "but the language of nature sometimes needs an interpreter to such young observers as Ned and Julia."

"That it does, papa," exclaimed Edward, whose exalted feeling was gradually subsiding to its natural level; "and there are people, too, older than Julia and I, that I think need an interpreter. That Yorkshireman, for instance, who lives in the stone house just at the turn of the road as we came down from Forsyth's, said to me, 'Well, young master, this is a mighty fine sight to come and see, but you would be sick enough of it if you lived here. It seems, when I am lying on my bed at night, like an everlasting thunder-storm, such a roaring from the Falls and dropping from the trees: and in winter my poor beasts are covered with icicles. I wish some of the quality that cry the place up, and come half the world over to see it, would change births with my wife and me,' and so he went on railing till I ran away from him to overtake you."

"Poor fellow!" said Mr. Sackville; "the sentiment, 'Il n'y a rien de beau que l'utile,'[3] is quite excusable in a laborer. I think, Ned, I feel more disposed to pity than to blame your Yorkshireman."

[3] There is nothing but the useful which is beautiful.

"Well, papa, what do you think of that party of city shop-keepers who dined at the inn with us to-day? I heard one of the ladies say, 'I have been so disappointed in my journey.' I dropped my knife and fork, and exclaimed, 'Disappointed, madam! does not the fall look as high as you expected?' 'Oh, child,' she replied, laughing, 'I was not speaking of the fall; but I find it is quite too early in the season to travel in the country. I have not seen a roast pig or a broiled chicken since I left the city.' What do you think of that, papa?"