^< IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-S) k // ^/ .i^ :/. J z %g & ^ 1.0 I.I Ul 125 liO 2f i4i * 2.2 Ui u 140 20 IL25 i u I <9 ^. V] //, m ^?; '/ y^ Photographic Sdences Corporation 23 WEST MAIN STREET WEBSTER, N.Y. 14580 (716) 873-4S03 ^ ^'' is :. -. L ^' CONTENTS. '''r^r~ Pkkkace Ella Lane Unforgotten In Memoriam Ceylon At Sea . . . . Ceylon I. N. R. I. Dominus resurrexit To the Demon of Intemperance Red Ribbon Song Across the River The Fisher's Wife St. Helena London The Legend of the Aspen Wreck of the Orient Legend of Lake Qu'Appelle A Fragn, :nt P.\c;k. I 8 II 13 18 22 29 •• 32 35 37 39 . . 44 46 51 56 59 61 .. 69 CONTENTS. VI To a I -ally liiiproinptu Longing Unseen 'Vu Fainiy To Kmnia Kva May A Wish In Memoriani Mew Vear Hells (Juiva Viva Nf Provincial Fain. fvAVS OK iMniJEKN f-ONOo; P.\(;i'. 7» 72 73 74 75 76 78 80 81 87 lOI ELLA LANE. FOUNDED ON FACT. /// ftiorte non separahuutut'. j^JK^. ARK yonder cot beneath the cHff which rears Its ^:W4. dizzy height, Far, far above wh^re the ocean foam si)ecks the gray sand with w lite ; Upon whose suminr can birds erect their airy nests : Upon whose bro\ i " snowy gull its weary pinions rests. There in a nook that cottage stands, where the fiercest winter storm Can not molest it, though it stands scarce out of reach of harm, A weather beaten fisher dwells within those spray beat walls ; A man whose hair is white and long, and o'er his shoul- ders falls. Full half And century he has lived within this lowly cot, satisfied, the rich and great the old man envies not ELLA F-ANE. Each eve, when fair the wind, his craft out seaward speeds away, Her keen bows cutting thro' the waves, and casting far the spray : The morning sees his safe return, adown the pebbly lane There comes his greatest joy to give him welcome back again ; ft is his little grand daughter, o'er whose bright sunny head, Some summers ten have passed away, and with the past have fled. A child of beauty rare, whose eyes, like sunshine on the sea, Are ever glancing clear and bright, and dance in restless glee; A mouth \vhose cherry lips disclose a row of glistening pearls ; A voice more clear and musical than e'er the woodland . merle's. A figure more like those we see in dreams of elves and fays, From which the eyes of those who see can scarce with- draw their gaze ; The old man fondly loves the child, she is the only one Of all his kin now left ; they long their earthly course have run. When wintry winds howl fierce and loud the old man's cot around, When the ocean's voice gives forth its roar with deep and angry sound. The old man ventures not abroad upon the raging sea ; But more securely stays at home, his pet stands at his knee. t n Kr.I.A I.ANR 3 And as he mends his broken nets, wli...-»e perfume of the brine Odorous fills the little room, her loving fmgers twine About the white locks on his head, the head she loves so well ; While he, in houiely accents strives some stirring tale to tell ; Of days when he was young, and she gives ear with wondering ^aze. Whilst ever and anon he stops his narrative to praise The beauty of the little girl, and tell her how that he Remembers her own mother when a girl as l)right as she. And then the old man wipes away the tear drops that will come, When he thinks of her now passed away to lier eternal home ; And though the child remembers not the mother who has gone, She weeps in sympathy, that he, her grandsire not alone May grieve, which seeing, he again resumes his broken tale, While hoarcely roars the furious sea, and fiercely howls the gale ; His nets repaired, his labors o'er, his little grandchild kneels To pray : a smile of sweet content o'er the old man's features steals. As he hears her gentle voice repeat, in accents soft and low^ The prayers which he had heard her say, who left him long ago ; Oh ! sure no prayers so pure as those fronT the lips of a little child. 4 ELLA LANE. Who knows not of the sins which rage in the world so fierce and wild ; AVho onJ ' knows of sin by name ; Oh ! do such prayers atone P'or deeds of evil done by others — before the heavenly throne ? Fhe Bible brought, the chapter read, to rest they both Y> "e ; While liu hearth the embers glow, grow fainter ?nd And u^^ is heard, but the howling wind, and the . reakers dashing o'er The rocks which line the long expanse of sand along the shore, * * * * i * * Six years have fled, the cot still stands, the old man as of yore, Sets sail when wind and wave permit, his grandchild on the shore Still v.aves adieux as the little bark glides swiftly out to sea. And sometimes seated in the stern she bears him com- pany ; She fears no danger when with him, for a fisher's child is she. Six years have wrought a wondrous change in this fair lovely girl, A child no longer, now she is a very ocean pearl, l\:e same sweet smile, the same bright eyes, developed everv charm. To heaven the old man constant prays, to shield his child from harm. ' Twould seem that such a life to one so beautiful and fair, i ELLA LANE. 5 Would be monotonous ; 'tis not so, for never thought nor care Of any better Ufe than hers e'er gives her breast one pang ; On the happiness of her Grandsire. her happiness doth hang. If he be sad, a wistful look, comes in her lovely eyes, Which seem as though the cause of grief they're long- ing to surmise ; And should he smile, how bright her face with smiles illumines o'er, And loving looks from those sweet eyes of hers she seems to pour ; So time flies on, and Ella Lane more lovely daily grows ; The loveliness of the lilly pale, with the warm tint of the rose .suffused o'er all : her figure tall, so full of ease and grace, Is but eclipsed in loveliness by the beauty of her face. % % % % * * % 'Twas in November's blustering month, the old man in the morn Had put to sea; the day had fled, the new moon's up- turned horn Rose storm ily ; the winds increase ; an ominous mur- mur roars Through all the caves, which in the cliffs abound along the shores. And Ella fears she knows not what ; a shudder con- stant creeps O'er her fair frame as the wind sweeps by, yet still her watch she keeps ; 'Tis seldom in these winter months her grandsire over night I 6 - ELLA LANE. Will Stay at sea, but ever strives to reach the shore with light. And now 'tis ten and past ; and slill no welcome step she hears, And all alone she gives full vent to all her anxious fears ; At every blast she starts and peers into the murky night, But naught but darkness all around, greets her inquir- ing sight. Save indistinct, a line of foam, where breakers strike the shore. And dash the broken foam on high, the stern cliffs bosom o'er ; All night she watches, till at length, as day begins to dawn. She wanders forth upon the shore, her breast with ter- ror torn. Fears for she knows not what, but still a fear of im- pending ill And vainly she her fluttering heart strives hard to render still ; Of no avail : she wanders on, till something meets her gaze, A something at the sight of which more ghastly grows her face, [sea, A something lying on the beach, thrown by the angry It is her grandsire's fisher hat ; but still it may not be, It may be that the boisterous wind has blown it from his head While out at sea ; but yet she feels a sinking, sickening dread [yield ; At sight of it ; Can she go on? her limbs are fain to Yet see, another object here l)y the glowing light revealed ! ELLA LANE. The well known oar, thrown far ashore, and now she knows the worst. And tottering falls, her beating heart seems striving strong to burst. Oh ! Can it be ? Her dearest friend — gone ! No, 'tis not so, 'Tis fancy ; 'tis an awful dream from which she'll wake — but no, Tis all too real — that hat and oar — she rises, staggers on, And soon the remnants of the boat her eyesight rests upon. She walks mechanically on, scarce knowing where she goes. Till, just as in the east the sun of another day uprose, She sees her grandsire's body lie half in, half out the waves. The water playing roL^nd his head his well loved gray hair laves. With wild, unearthly shriek she flies toward the piteous sight. And drags the body toward the grass with superhuman might; '' Speak father ! say this is not death ! No, no, it cannot be, Oh I speak, dear father, speak one word ! Oh I father speak to me." "Tis vain : those lips she loved so well, will speak to her no more. The fisher's cares and sorrows now, for e'er on earth are o'er : — [wet sod, And when the sun rose higher up, and dried the spray Two forms lay there in close embrace ; two spirits were with God. UNFORGOTTEN. .J^f^On ilrp^ROM out the deep unbounded gloom, ,^^ Of darkling rock and rolling sand, Where loudly sweeps the dread simoom O'er many a league of leafless land. Light of my heart ! my spirit flies Far backward to that blissful hour, When thou wast to my youthful eyes The beauteous star, the peerless flower, Perchance my doom may be a grave Beyond the Atlantics restless sea, Yet far o'er mountain, waste or wave My spirit flies to thee, to thee. Oh ! loving eyes, oh I happy hours When mind and heart and lips were young. 'Ere sorrow dimmed hopes rosy bowers. When joy to meet our coming sprung. My lost ! though time and distance part Though oceans roll and roar between, Still in lifes dreary sea thou art UN FORGOTTEN. An isle to love and memory green. I /Ong, withering years with rapid pace Their burden on my heart have, flung Since last I looked upon thy face And heard the accents of thy tongue. Haply my image from thy heart Has faded with the flight of years And thought of me no more hath part In all thy joys and hopes and fears. Dark years full many I ne'er have known The music of thy well loved name, \'et in my breast, to thee alone Hath burnt a deathless altar flame. Which not adversity's strong hour Nor all the woes which have been mine Nor penury, nor bonds hath power To banish from it's holy shrine. 1 know not but thy cherished form To yon high worlds has passed to dwell Beyond the circle of the storm, To lips that never breathe farewell Or one with tones to thee divine Has gained thy willing heart and hand And other joys and cares are thine And dearer in another land. But if beyond the foaming main This frail memorial meet thy gaze Thou will not deem as wholly vain The tones that speak of other days. Again the mellow bugle thrills B <^ ^- • TO UNFORCiOTTEN. To call me to the march away And bright along the distant hills The Sunsets golden wavelets play. Deep in the prairies silent gloom To night my grassy couch must be But thought, unchained, afar will im And dwell a transient guest with uiee. IN MEMORIAM; J. s. Oh lit, J 846. * ■ . XTOT distant from the sea on a Devonian shore .c ^^ A churchyard stands around the house of (iod. Tread liglitly as thou sleppest the green mounds o'er, A father's ashes lie beneath the sod. No marble monument towers towards the skies ^ With hues descriptive of the sleepers worth, No gilded epitaph tells of him who lies In ])eace and rest beneath the mossy earth. Nought but a simple cross : the cross so dear To him who sleeps, stands o'er his lowly tomb : The sombre yew trees to the headstone near Cast shades which throw a darkness and a gloom O'er that plain grave. At eve the nightingale Pours forth her melody distinct and clear, So sad, it seems as though she doth bewail The death of him so calmly sleeping here. I 2 IN iMKMOKIA.M. riie distant murmur of the Ocean breaks Upon the solitude which reigns around, I 'he gentle zephyr in the yew-trees makes Sweet cadence, mingling with the Ocean's scjund. r.ut though no epitaph with hollow pride ' 'IV) all the world his noble acts doth give; Those acts were graven deep before he died. And written in the hearts of those who live. (Ireat were his virtues but his failings few, His dealings upright, all his life was pure, A heart was his, benevolent and true, The needy, wanting, never left his door. The fatherless and widow found a trusty friend In him : the hungry never begged in vain, All that he did was good : how blest his end, How small our loss compared with his great gain. luill well we know that he is gone before, Cione, we are certain, to those regions blest, Where all of sorrow, sin and grief are o'er, Where those aweary find repose and rest. ^^^ 11(1. CEYLO N. ain. f^ HERE is an island in the East In the heart of the tropic clime Where all the year, from end to end 'Tis one long summer time : Save two short months, when the wild monsoijn Roars madly oer the isle, Save then, the same from day to day All nature seems to smile. Around the sea-shore, lofty palms Their feathered branches spread :Vs to the sky each graceful tree Rears high its plumed head. The Ocean waves, subdued and calm Break gently on the strand, And roll their sparkling waters bright Upon the golden sand. The flying fish it's airy course Now and again pursues, '4 CKYF.ON. And, glittering in the Sun, disi)lays A thousand brilliant hues. Then sinks again with weary wing Into the ocean'" '-"east. On wliich the s / sea-gull floats In peaceful ease and rest. Whilst, further inland, jungles dense Exclude the burning glare, So still, that one can scarce believe That any life is there. Embosomed in the forest's midst Fair lakes their waters spread, Whicli vivedly reflect the trees Which tower over head. The gorgeous peacock 'cross the lake With scream discordant flies: The l)rilliant lyre-birds flashing i)ast, 'I'he bird of Paradise, Seem like bright meteors as they fly : The graceful cygnet floats Serenely on the placid wave. The doves low, soothing notes Sound mournfully ; the insects hum (jives forth it's drowsy drone. While, now and then, the bell-bird rings With clear metalic tone. The gaudy parrot's songless voice Is lond and frequent heard. While like a restless spirit flits The tiny humming-bird. CEYLON. <5 The scent from flower-laden trees Perfumes the suUry air, And many a brilhant blossom blooms And wastes its fragrance there. When night draws near the sounds increase, Loud, fierce the leopards roar : And echo, with her mimic voice Re])eats the sound once more. 'I'he jackal's hideous yell resounds The jungles arches through ; The night-ow'l ever and anon Re|)eats its' deep " tu-whoo." The devil-bird with mocking laugh Screams shrill : the very air Seems all alive with divers sounds Which cease in mid-day's glare. lUit further inland all is changed, 'I'here towering mountaii s rise : There Adam's l*eak its' Hfty head Uprears toward the skies. False Pedro's summit stands afar A stately solemn giant Amongst the lesser hills around It seems to stand defiant. The Mahvala ganga's silvery stream Flows past fair Kandy's town, On which, sequestered in a vale, The mountains round look down. Oh ! Kandy, with thy sculptured most^ues And ancient walls and lake, II i I 6 CEVLON. A beauteous ])icture in good truth Thou to the eve dost make. See here the Buddhist i)riest stalk on U'ith grave and reverend mien Through orange groves and scented shade Of lime and mangosteen, In which is heard the drowsv hum Of ever restless bees : Whilst countless perfumes round are spread Home on th' odorous breeze. Set here the stately temple stands Sacred to Buddha's tooth ; How long will such idolatry Prevail, and will the truth, I'he only Truth e'er shed its rays O'er this benighted sect ? Or will thev eer the Holv Word S])urn from them and reject? "Tis ))itiful in such a land Which boasts such beautv rare. That such a worship should exist And even flourish there : But so it is : and so has been For many centuries. "Tis difficult to change the mind Of these idle Cinghalese : Whate er their fathers did, thev do To them it seems but right : You could not change their creed although You proved that black was white. CEVLON. '7 Xfrn- to ('c\lon we bid farewell A land to memory dear ; Our sails are set ; we see the isl( (irow dim, and disappear. "^)^ 't ' AT SEA. fHROUGH the ' Trades' our ship is rushing, fresh- ly blows the favoring gale Onward speeds the gallant vessel under press of ever) sail. See the flying fishes glancing, take their flight across the sea. See th' ungainly porpoise, rising, spring in air with clumsy glee. Look astern : the bright hued dolphin through the water swiftly speeds. Shining, glittering, swiftly darting: see yon l)unch of Ocean w^eeds. Whilst above our tapering spars the Albatross serenely sails On his wide, outstretched pinions, in the teeth of fierc- est gales : P'ar away from land we see him, see this lordly alba- tross. AT SEA. 19 See him in the northern tropics, see him where the southern cross Shines resplendent, ever flying; seldom do we see him rest, For his home is in the ocean, and his bed, the ocean's breast. j Superstitious sea-men tell us that the Albatrosses grey Are the souls of men departed from their tenements of clay; Ah ! strange legends have these sailors, and unshaken is their faith In th' existence of the spirits; many a fancied ghost or wraith Walks upon the midnight Ocean; ghosts of those who die at sea, And no argument pursuades them that such things can never be. Woe betide the man who slays the Stormy Petrel, for that bird All the sailors hold as sacred; many a story have I heard Of the fearful fate o'ertaking all who ever put to death Such a bird, his death is sure within the year, the legend saith. Hold on to your superstitions, gallant, brave and braw- ny tar, Well we know in time of danger, what you were and what you are; Iron handed, gentle hearted, fearless, tender, brave and true; AVell 'twould be if those who scorn you, more them- selves resembled you. w 20 AT SEA. Yes, 'tis you to whom Old England all her present glory owes Yes, to you she owes the conquests which she's gained o'er all her foes. Honest Jack ! with warm heart beating 'neath thy weather-beaten breast Islay you go aloft hereafter to your everlasting rest. * * * # * The trade winds daily fainter grow ; we near th' Equa- tor's line, The breezes blow with heated breath, the sun doth fiercely shine, And pours his burning rays upon the scarcely rij^pling sea, And all around where'er we look no life doth seem to be ; Save now and then the nautilus glides by with tiny barque, AVhile here and there we see the sharp, black fin of the cruel shark Rise o'er the surface, and approach till close the beast is nigh, And as we look we see the fiend which glints in his murd'rous eye. And now we are becalmed, not even the faintest sound we hear. The sails lie useless 'gainst the mast, and idly hangs the gear. We make no progress on our way, a day, a week crawls And still the same dead calm prevails ; the same still sea and sky. AT SEA. 21 The sea-man gazes all around, no sign of wind he sees. So, superstitious as of yore, he whistles for a breeze. And sure enough a faint, faint puff, which scarcely can be felt At first, now ripples all the sea around th' horizon's belt. A cat'spaw ? no, a breeze at last each moment stronger growls Till towards the setting of the sun a strong sou'wester blows. No fear of storms, tho' fresh the wind, no threatening dark f:lou(is lower, We speed along upon our course, hurrah ! twelve knots an hour. ■J :: J i '' i I n 'i 11 ,•[ fc'l It it It* H M 1 CEYLON. ITS SCKNERY AND (GENERAL ASPECT , "p'N my travels I have perhaps seen as many coun- c3 tries as the majority of men. I have stood on the summit of the Alps, and have beheld the beautiful sun- rises and other lovely scenes amongst those mountains. I have scaled the lofty heights of the Peak of Teneriffe, rising abruptly from the ocean to a height of 15,000 feet, and have gazed down from that pinnacle on seas of fleecy clouds below. I have stood where the great Nai)oleon stood on his desolate island-prison of St. Helena, and have wandered in solitude along the rock- bound shores of Tristan d'Acunha, striving to picture to myself the feelings and thoughts of wSelkirk when cast away on the lonely island of Saint Juan Fernandez. I have beheld some of the most enchanting views in China and Japan, but never have I seen any land which for beauty of scenery, for luxuriant vegetation, and for variety of climate, e(}ualled the lovely Island of Ceylon. More able writers than I have descril)ed this island and its beauties, but surely none more enthusiastic, CEVLON. -^3 and so I humbly proceed to do homage to its charms. As I lookback to the time when I first saw Ceylon, it seems to me almost like a dream ; like one of those visions in which we visit })laces which are almost in- describable in their loveliness, and my retrospective eye beholds this island of the Indian Ocean, with its towering mountains clothed to the very summits with gigantic forests, from which issue magnificent cascades and foaming cataracts that form in the valleys plac:id rivers and still deep lakes : I see the dense cool jungles and the tall waving palm trees dim and indistinct, sur- rounded as it were by a golden haze. Seen from the sea at the distance of a few miles, Ceylon appears to be one mass of dense tropical vegetation — the jungles running down to the very waters edge, the waves of the ocean, in fact, at times dashing in ar^ungst the tall and stately palms, their white foam contrasting beauti- fully with the surrounding gloom. Further inland, lofty mountains rise, indistinct and purple in the distance, but, plainly discernible amongst them stands Adam's Peak, the monarch of them all, rearing his proud crest some 8,000 feet above the level of the ocean. At times the land-breeze sweeping out to sea, bears off od- ours of spices and aromatic herbs which perfume the air for miles away from land. It seems as though some spirit were swinging an unseen censer in the air, and the spectator feels a pleasing sensation creeping over hi'Ti as the incense laden zephyrs fim his brow. Close to the shore the surf is ever rolling ; and often in the night have I lain awake listening to its moaning, on the landward breeze, and now falling now rising tii' ' '''4 M k i into low, soothing murmurs, till its voice became so familiar to me that, when I left Ceylon, I felt as though 24 CEYLON. I had lost a friend in the restless surf which ever beats upon her shores. But to obtain a sense of perfect solitude and silence, one should penetrate some of the dark, gloomy jungles about the hour of noon. Verily, silence reigneth here. Nothing can be heard save per- haps the trickling of some little brook, leaping on to- wards the ocean, or the flutter of the gaudy plumage of the Bird of Paradise winging its flight in meteoric splendor. All Nature seems to sleep at this hour of the day. A gloomy twilight enshrouds all around, and the perfume of the flower-laden trees becomes almost oppressive in its intensity. I have often wandered among the dark aisles of some virgin forest, where never the footstep of man trod before, amazed and bewilder- ed by the weird beauty of the scene, and with a strange feeling of awe. creeping over me to think that I alone had ever penetrated those forest depths, during the thousands and thousands of years of their existence. As the day wears on, the denizens of the jungles com- mence to awaken from their siesta, and the shrill note of the minah resounds through the echoing vaults, whilst the deep metallic tones of the bell-bird toll slowly through the woody shades. The grey-whiskered, quaint-looking Wanderoo ape hangs chattering from the topmost bough of some lofty teak tree, whilst the brilliantly feathered parrot makes the forest re-echo with his discordant shrieks. Who that has ever visit- ed the tropics, does not know what an awakening into life takes place in the jungle about the sunset hour ? This has been described often and often before, and by those whose description would be better worth pe- rusing than mine. So let us leave the jungles and pro- ceed on a short tour over the island. Perhaps a very CKVLON. brief sketch of the Iiistory of Ceylon might not be un- interesting ; so I will endeavor to state what little J know concerning it in js short a space as i)ossible. Ceylon, Singhala, Lanka, Serindab or Taprobane, lies between the parallels of 5"^ 54 and 9*^ 48' N. and 80"" to 82° E. longitude. Its length is about 275 miles from north to south, and its breadth is about 150 miles. The Singhalese, the native inhabitants of the island, claim to be descended from a colony of Sings or Raj- poots, B. C. 500. They are a fine-looking, handsome, indolent race, perfectly content to earn a subsistence by selling their paddy or rice fields, but looking >vith an abhorrent eye on anything approaching to real hard labor. A stranger in the island is at a loss, at first, to distinguish the difference in sex, both men and women wearing the hair long, the men, however, confining theirs in a knot behind, with a large tortoiseshell comb : both dress in a similar manner, and were it not for the Deard of some of the sterner sex, I confess it would be a matter of some difficulty, even for one who had resid- ed for some time on the island, to distinguish a Sing- hale ma 1 from a woman. There is abundant evidence that, in very remote ages, Ceylon was extensively peo- pled, though the population has since greatly decreas- ed. Ruins are to be found throughout the island which prove that in some long past age magnificent cities existed. More especially are these ruins to be seen near Mantotte, where vast i)iles of brick, stone a'^d mortar, with an immense artificial reservoir some fifteen miles in extent, are found in a state of very tol- erable preservation. Mantotte is supposed to have been the capital of a kingdom established by the Hindoos over the northern part of the island, but the date is D fir ii ■i; I f ^: i m 26 CEYLON. very uncertain. Further in the interior, however, are buildings of much greater antiquity, constructed of liuge stones, beautifully cut and dovetailed into each other (no mortar having been used), with inscriptions plainly discernible on them, but which no human i)eirg now in existence has as yet been able to deci- pher. And here these huge edifices stand, monuments like the Pyramids of Egypt, or the great wall of China, of an attainment in architectural art at that early age ei^ual to that of the present day. Two beautiful artifi- cial lakes are still to be seen — one at Kandelle, near Trincomale (8 20 N lat), which is eighteen miles in circumference, and exhibits a parapet around it, formed of immense blocks of stone 12 to 15 feet leg. This parapet is 143 feet broad at the base, and 30 feet at the summit. It is a thing worthy of remark that there are arches in this parapet with conduits over them similar to those constructed by the Romans in Italy. The other lake, though very beautiful, is on a much smaller scale, and is situated at the mountain capital, Kandy, it is only about three miles in cir- cumference. On the, I think, eastern side of it stands the huge Buddhist temple, built of stone and beauti- fully carved both inside and out, and the natives claim that the date of its erection is several thousands of years ago. Near Batticaloa is a gigantic pagoda, also con- structed of large blocks of stone, and near it are seen the traces of a canal some hundred feet wide, which the natives will inform you was made by men forty feet in height ! Be that as it may, these ruins are the remains of most stupendous edifices, and among these astounding buildings I may mention the bridge across the Kalu-oya, near a fort of the same name, the CEYLON. 27 II Stones of which are from ten to fifteen feet long, and firmly jointed into one another. This bridge is said to have been constructed 75, 000 years axo ; and even at that remote period the then natives are shown to have used the chisel and wedge in splitting stone in the manner which has only been introduced into Europe in the nineteenth century. The ancient Singhalese capital was Anaradgapura, and was en- closed by a wall fifteen miles long. A list of the streets is still in existence. The Portugese wrested the great- er part of the island from the Cinghalese in 15 18, but were driven from the country, after a series of long and bloody struggles, by the Dutch, acting in conjunc- tion with the Cinghalese in 1657 .In i8t8 the island became subject to British sway, under which it has ever since remained, only a few unimportant risings and insurrections having occurred since that date. 1 am aware that this is the merest outline of the hisDry of Ceylon, but time and space w^ill not permit me to say more, though a very large and interesting volume might be written on this ancient island, and nothing would give me greater delight than to be its author, for it is with feelings of intense pleasure that I look back to my sojourn in that island, and I never think of it, or anything connected with it, without very pleas- urable emotions. Many writers claim that Ceylon was the Eden of the Old Testament, but so many facts go to confute this theory that I think myself it is scarce- ly possible, though certainly the island is beautiful en- ough even to have been Eden itself But I have al- ready said more than I intended about this lovely spot, this Garden of the East, and will conclude with Bishoi) s& Q li. M\ 4 28 CKVI.ON. Hebor's beautiful verse in which he so sweetly hings of that Paradise, Singhala: " What though the spicy breezes Blow fair o'er Cuylons isle ; Where every prorjpect pleases, And only man is vile." I. N. R. I. I 'D C^EE him with his (towi. of thorns, so meekly V^ K<^irig forth to die, With his robe of purple flowing, on his way to Cnlvary ; Uttering no vain remonstrance, though a word from him had slain . * Those who slew him : yet he chose to suffer agony and pain. Hear the Jews ; '* We have a law, and by that law he ought to die, For he calls himself the Saviour, and the Son of God most High ;" Pilate sees no evil in Him ; yet he fears to set him free, And he says : '' They call thee King of Jewry, tell me, art thou He ?" But the Saviour, silent standing, spake not, answered not a word, Gave no token that he listened ; gave no sign that He had heard ; H i 30 I. N. K. r. Then again spake Pilate, saying ; " Knowst tliuu nuL the power I have ; Power to slay thee ; crucify thee ; power to kill or power to save i" Meekly answered Jesus, trusting ever in His Father's love, " Thou could'st have no power against me, lest 'twere given thee from above ; His the greater sin who gave me to be ])ut to death by thee " And from thence the wish of Pilate, was to set the Saviour free. But the Jews and people clamored : fiercely spake the soldiers rude ; " Crucify him, crucify him ! Let us have th' impostor's blood !" # Wavering Pilate gives him over, to a sinner's death of shame, To be crucified, while thieves revile, and call upon his name : " If thou be the Jesus save us ; save thyself and us,' they cry ; But no word escapes the Saviour in His hour of agony : Death at last ends all his sufferings, and from pain the Lord is freed ; Not till then do those who slew Him, own that He was Christ indeed. Who but Christ could die as he did? even with his dying breath. Praying for His slayer's pardon ; begging that His shameful death I. N. K. I. 3T Might l)c pardoned them ; and calling, when death's portal [)assing through : "Oh ! forgive them, Heavenly Father, for they know not what they do I" DOMINUS RESURREXIT. MATT. CHAP. XXVIII. •"x^-a^ *nVrOW the Sabbath being ended, as the day l)egan ~i^ to dawn, 'Ere the glorious sun had risen, just at breaking of the morn, ]^o ! the whole earth shook and trembled, and the' stone was rolled away From the sepulchre where sleeping, Jesus Christ the Savior lay. Now came Mary Madgalene to the place where he had lain 'I'o behold the tomb of him whom, wantonly, the Jews had slain : And with her the other Mary : but how great was their surprise When they reached the tomb to see the sight which met their wondering eyes. Sitting on the stone removed, the angel of the Lord they know, DOMINUS RESURREXIT. 33 :A With his countenance like Ughtning, and his raiment white as snow. Novv' the keepers of the- Saviour's body, seized with ter- ror, shake And become as dead ; the angel to the women gcntl}- spake, Saying, " Fear not ; for I know ye seek the Saviour crucified, He is gone ; for he is risen as he said before he died ; Go ye, tell to his disciples that the Lord is risen in- deed. He has left His earthly prison, from the bonds of death is freed." Seized with mingled fear and joy the women swiftly wend their way, Eager to impart the news that Christ no longer buried \ ' But had risen ; as they go they hear the blessed Saviour's voice. As He meets them on their journey, and the women's hearts rejoice When they hear Him gently speaking, softly greeting them, " All Hail. Fear ye nothing," For the courage of the two began to fail. " Quickly go ye, tell my brethren that they go to Galilee Where e're many days have passed their Lord and Mas- ter they shall see." ■jf -jf * * Greatly now the elders wondered when they lieard what thing.>^ were done, How the stone was rolled away and how that Jesus Christ was o;one. I 1 El /it! .^.12! I lis 34 DOMINUS RESURRKXIT. •^ And they charged the soldiers, saying '' Be ye sure ye only say, That this man's disciples came by night and stole his corpse away." Tlius with bribes they charged the watch: and they this rumour spread al^road How, whilst they slept, the Christ's disciples stole the body of their Lord. * * * But tlie eleven (luickly journeying on their way to Gal- ilee Eager to behold their master ; anxious Jesus Christ to see, VVhom, when they behold, they worship ; Jesus charges them to go Teaching all that he had taught them ; teachuig all things that they know. That they are the Lord's disciples e'er should be then- proudest boast ; That they should baptize in the name of Father, Son and Holy Ghost. VaUJP^I.^^Hi^ ■ ; I TO THE DEMON OF INTEMPERANCE I :L«J:^ENCE ' hence I thou destroyer no longer ap. - i^ p roach me, Thou wlio hast shattered my ease and repose ; Tell me the reason why friends now reproach me, Why those who were friends are now worse far than foes. Get thee afar ! and relincjuish, Temptation, No more hast thou power to turn me aside From the way I have chosen, to the deep degradation Which attends all confiding in thee as a guide. No more will I trust in thy promise alluring, No more be deceived by thy dazzling glitter, For long 1 have known that the sweets thour't assur- ing Me prove to be worthless, deceptive and bitter. 'Tis useless to say that there's joy in the tankard, 1 did think so once, but I now know full well M I '^VW r:t .56 TO THK DEMON OF INTEMPERANCE. That the first sips are steps to the grave of the drunkard, The stepping-stones down to destruction and Hell. When raving, delirious, dost thou bring consolation To thy devotee ? No ! thou sendest instead Such demons and fiends, such foretaste of damnation. As Hell only knows of to watch by his bed. And yet to destruction a host thou art leading, Bound far more secure than with irons and gyves, And a deaf ear thou turn'st to the sorrowful pleading Of heart-broken mothers, and desolate wives. '{'he tears of the widow and orphan unceasing. By thee are unheeded : thou turnest away, And daily thy victims are largely increasing As thy power grows greater, and stronger thy sway. But a brighter day cometh when the sun, Prohibition, Will break through the clouds which now threaten- ing l(»wer, And its bright rays will burst, like a beautiful vision. On those who now grieve, soon to sorrow no more. RED RIBBON SONG. ,'i^HROUC;HOUT the continent proclaim Jiv The glorious Temperance cause, " Dare to Do Right," our constant aim, The foremost of our laws, In love fraternal let us dwell With charity for all, May those whom we have sndtched from hell Ne'er feebly backward fall. Chorus — ^So let us see on every breast The rosy ribbon bright, In love fraternal let us rest, And " Dare to do the right." May those who now with drunkard's chains Are bound, soon see the day, When they shall break through all their bonds, And dash the cup away ; And may our ribbon's glowing rose, Our mottoes e'er recall : " Show mercy unto all your foes, With Charity for all."— Cho. 1 ';i; 1 38 RED RIBBON SONG May we on many a manly breast This little ribbon see, From north to south, from east to west, The badge of victory. The token of a battle fought With one, a deadly foe, * Whom " with (jod's help " and fearing naught We'll deal the lethal blow. — Cho. If we as one united stand, Bound by fraternal love, We soon shall drive him from the land, With hel]) from Him above ; Soon sliall the world in which we dwell Feel our -esistless power. Which all the dark clouds will dispel. Which now so threatening lower. -Cho. The Sun of Temperance will rise If we our strength unite, And shining brightly in the skies, Will shed its hallowed light O'er all the land, and those who mourn Will banish soon their fears, For if we struggle. He will aid Who wipes away all tears. Chorus — So let us see on every breast, The rosy ribbon bright, In love fraternal let us rest, And " Dare to do the right." ACROSS THE RIVER. < c.' P"r was a poor small rooni; in truth, where lay a littk' ^;^' child. So pale and wan, yet his dark eyes shone with a light so clear and mild ; I'he spring had passed and summer came, and through the long, long, day The little invalid in pain, tho' silent, patient lay. From morn till noon alone he lay, but when the mid- day hour Tolls slowly forth with measured stroke from out the grey church tower, He listens eagerly, and oft his eye toward the door Will wander, and at every sound grow brighter than before. He knows his sister's step so well, and when that step he hears, He banishes that look of pain which would augment her fears ; ■i ■9HH" 40 ACROSS THE RIVER And when she enters, oh I how bright the smile upon her face, As, rushing to his bed, she throws her arms in fond embrace Around his little form, and brings him flowers of sweet perfume, Her very presence seems to him like sunshine in the room ; Her gentle voice, in soothing tones, speaks words of hope and love ; And every note falls softly, like the cooing of the dove. * •X- % Their father, mother, all their kin are dead, and they alone Upon the mercies of the world, thus ruthlessly, are thrown ; The sister to the neighbouring town each early morn repairs. Her joys are few, aye, few indeed, but many are her cares. The pittance which her needle brings, tho' scant is made to do, She sadly thinks how soon 'twill be for one, tho' now for two ; She feels her little brother's form each day still lighter grow, ' And knows full well 'twdll not be long before the final blow. In vain she strives to hide the fact, she ever strives in vain, That he is passing fast away to her is but too plain. ACROSS THE RIVER. 41 She will not let him see her grief; she hides from him her fears, Yet when alone her breaking heart finds sweet* relief in tears, The end is near. One summer morn as day begins to break She hears a voice from his little bed : " Dear Flo, are you awake?" She swiftly gUdes to where he lies and kneels beside the bed, And with her loving arms supports his little feeble head. *'0h ! sister, I have had a dream, yet real it seems to be, I thought I stood in some bright place and you were there with me ; On every side the flowers grew, 'twas all so bright and fair, But what seemed best of all to me w^as you being with me there. We wandered on and on, and came to a broad and shining stream ; And yet I knew^ as we stood there 'twas but all a dream. And on the other side I saw bright figures beckon me, A light so bright shone all around that I could scarcely see ; And though I wished to cross the stream, you would not let me go, We stood and listened to the sound of music soft and low ; Such music as I've never heard, it rose and died away, F U ■f i '% .ft If ^.^ lirl It I f 42 ACROSS THE RIVER. Twas like the sound of summer winds, as through the firs they play ; It sounded like a harp when swept by the gentle summer breeze, And sweetest chords rose loud, then fell in mystic melodies. And voices sang, not those I hear when lying here awake, l^ut like the summer wavelets as on the shore they break. ** Come, come," they sang, I wished to go, but still you held me fast And would not let me : at this time a figure glided past, A figure tall and bright, and on his head a glittering crown. And eyes so sweet and loving, which on us both looked down. " Come, come," he said, and took me up and bore me o'er the river, '* Here thou shalt dwell in peace and joy, for ever and for ever." And then I woke : oh ! sister dear, why do you weep, 'twould seem That I had really left you, but this is all a dream : — I see those forms again, I hear the harps the angels Oh ! I must go," and with these words his spirit passed away. For hours the fair girl knelt beside the bed, and prayed that she ACROSS THE RIVER. 43 Might l)e released from earth, and with her brother wander free In tlicse briglit lands he dreamt about, to wander there for ever : And when the noontide bell rang out her soul had crossed the river. 'fW: THE FISHER'S WIFE. [H ! wildly roar<5 the angry sea And casts its waves ashore afar, No eye can pierce the lowering gloom, Nowhere is seen a single star. The vault of Heaven is black and dark, The tempest shrieks, the billows roar, Yet there, upon yon jutting rock, Which marks the circle of the shore, A slender figure stands alone, With hand upraised to aid the eye To pierce the gloom : how vain the thought, All one seem earth and sea and sky. What does she here ? She waits for him Whom but a month ago she wed, The hardy fisher, who this morn. To sea with favoring breezes sped. But since the morn how changed is all, A gale is raging in its might, IHK I'ISHKR S VVUK. 45 And Cod alone can save the boat Which may be on the sea to night. Hut Mary long had learnt to trust In Him who stilled tl'e stormy sea, When suddenly the tempest rose, Upon the Lake of Galilee. And now she prays with fervent hope, *' Oh ! Father, leave me not alone, Thou knowest best what best will be, Thy will and not my will be done." A sound she hears as in a lull, The tempest pauses — there once more Her name — it is her husband's voice, How fleet she flies along the shore. Yes, there he stands, safe, safe again. The young wife's prayer has answered been, And as the dark clcuds clear away The pale moon smiles upon the scene. Clasped in his brawny arms she lays Her head upon his stalwart breast, And sobs for joy that she once more May in those fond embraces rest. II I ST. HELENA. LAT. 15° S. -- ? Wi t>' giONELY and desolate she seems to stand, T>.^; Rising from out the ocean's ruffled breast, Standing alone, where sweep the South East Trades, Whose constant breath forever fans this isle. On every side save one, all, all is still, It seems to be the realm of sol'tude ; No sound except the sea-bird's mournful wail, Or breakers dashing on the rock bound shore, And rushing in among the sea-worn caves, (jive forth a hollow, booming, echoing groan. No sign of vegetation meets the wearied eye. As, gazing upwards to this barren isle. It seeks in vain for shrub or shady tree. And yet the air is ever pure and clear. The Trade winds blow with never changing course, And, were it not so sterile and so bare, This isle would be a pleasant dwelling place. From off the summit of the lofty cliff, ST. HELENA. 47 Naught can be seen afar but sea and sky, Save here and there some white winged man-of-war, Or merchant vessel, saiHng homeward bound From far AustraHa or from sunny Ind, Whilst here and there the porpoise, sjjringing high (jlints for a moment in the tropic sun. And then returns again to Mother deep. Yet here the mightiest genius of his age. Imprisoned, spent his latest years on earth. Here on this barren land he passed away Wearied of life in such a lonely spot. See here the rock on which Napoleon stood For hours together, as gazing out to sea He watched the vessels gliding swiftly past, So near, and yet so wholly out of reach. What were the thoughts of his gigantic mind ? None can divine. But on this little rock Which stands projecting from the dizzy cliff, Full half his days Napoleon would spend. And with his telescope would ever scan The horizon's line — for what? That no one knows. Did he expect release ? It never came For St. Helena's harbor — and the man Now on his Island prison stood alone. Day after day, his form was ever seen. With head advanced, and telescope in hand ; And there upon the cliff would musing stand F"'or hours ; then, with a deep sigh, turn away And seek repose within his humble cot. Which stands at Longwood 'neath the willows shade. Sad that the man whose slightest word was law, Who once could say, " Do this,'' and it was done, Before whose armies nations turned and fled. l^i! \i i ll ; ;, .t) 48 ST. HELENA. Should thus be doomed to spend his latter days In solitude, worn out with vain regrets, And here he died ; the man who once could count His friends, or those who seemed to be as such. By hundreds and by thousands — died alone Save for the presence of his soldier guards. And as he breathed his last words upon earth, Those words, "Tete d'armie," then there swept across The island, fierce and furious, such a gale As ne'er was seen before, and never since ; The lightnings gleamed, incessant, vividly. The thunder rolled with loud and deafening roar, The sea, in fury, dashed against the cliffs ; The very isle seemed shaken to it's base, So say the dwellers on Helena's isle ; And here his tomb, without a tenant now. Beneath the gloomy weeping willow's shade. Is shown to those who visit Longwood's height, Neglected, and destroyed by shameless hands Of those who visit Bonaparte's grave ; For each who comes will take away a piece Of either stone or of the wiliow trees, Till in the years to come will nought remain Of that lone grave where once Napoleon slept. Here on the trees we see the names engraved Of British visitors, who seek renown By carving names which it were better far They'd left ungraven in this hallowed spot. For here, above the grave of Bonaparte, We see '' John Smith," " Tom Brown," Jack Robin- son," And many others of the tribe of Jones, ST. HELENA. 49 Who deem it glory thus to leave their names. % if- if- On St. Helena there is but one spot Which is not lonely, this is James' town, The capital, which lies between the hills, And from the sea shore rises and recedes. Running the whole length of St. James' vale. All nations seem to mingle in this town, The Spaniard, Negro, and the red fez'd Turk, The omni-present Jew, the Portugese, The bluff-faced Englishman, who as of yore, Doth grumble peevishly, and muttering, swear, Comparing all he sees with things at home. Concluding then, that, wheresoe'er he goes, There is no place like Englijnd in the world. The British tar with jovial laugh is here, Happy and drunk as he is wont to be ; It has been truly said that 'neath the sun There is no animal like Jack ashore ; The shrewd American is also here. In fact, near every nation in the world Has here one representative or more, For every vessel, on her homeward course, vStops here for whatsoever she may lack. Here in St. James' vale fruit trees abound, The apple, pear, greengage, and sour plum. Whilst vegetables grow and flourish well, A boon, indeed, to those who from afar Have journeyed on the sea. Upon the trees, From bough to bough, the brilliant love-birds flit, And parrots, gay with divers gorgeous hues. Save in this spot the isle is lone and drear, I'hough blest w^ith climate which is not excelled iilf 50 ST. HELENA. By any ; but how useless is a clime, However good, when never mortal man Doth dwell in, feel it, and with thankful heart, Give praise unto his Maker for the same. "^^^m^^ ■ LONDON, ONTARIO. f)^ INHERE once stood vast forests, and where, not long ago, the cold wintry winds howled over bleak expanses of trackless waste, now stands London, which is a small but flourifhing city, situated on the outskirts of Carling's Brewery, and containing a popu- lation of some 25,000 inhabitants of various nation- ahties. The city is built on the river Thames, a magnificent stream of water, fully six yards wide in some of its broadest parts. It ru^ihes, forming and roaring, past dense forests and through lovely vales ; past rich green meadows, wherein the ruminating cow lows blithely to her innocent offspring ; where the gay and jubilant sheep nibbles the luscious herbage, and exalts her silvery voice in song, totally unconscious of the mor- row, when she may become chops, forequarters, and legs, of mutton ; oh ! happy life ! oh ! blissful hours ! Would that I had been born a lambkin, e'en though it were my lot to be devoured by ruthless and carniv- rous man, 'ere I had arrived at years of maturity and discretion. Onward the river runs, past gardens 52 LONDON. rich in all the i)roducts of lavish handed Nature, where the })otatoes hang in rich, ripe, perfume-breathing clusters from the trees, and where the mellow pump- kin droops in all its golden glory from the heavily laden boughs ; where the melancholy and despondent Colorado potato bug smacks his lips at the thought of a recent feast, but ponders dejectedly on the ]3rospects of a failure in next year's crop of his favorite vegetable : oh ! leguminivorous bug, wipe awity the crystal drop which springs to your cerulean orbs. Keep up your heart and despair not. But let us leave these fair fields and gardens, and return to the City of London itself, first proceeding to mention the public and other buildings, many of which are well worthy of notice, as for instance : The Post Office, Custom House, Bank of Montreal, Me- chanics' Institute, Oddfellows' Hall, Jones' Commer- cial College, and the Lunatic Asylum. The streets are broad and spacious — beautifully clean — a foot or so of mud being considered a mere "bagatelle" by the contented citizens ; whilst in the winter the religion of the inhal)itants prevents them from removing the snow from the sidewalks. The street cars dash by with meteoric swiftness at a velocity varying from 2 to 2^ miles a month. A well organized Police Force ])atrol the streets by day, and peacefully slumber therein by night, and ever and anon is heard the stern command, " Be aff now," or '^ Move on wid yez," from blue coated juveniles of seme 70 or 80 summers ; and the terror depicted on tliL' pallid countenances of the ragged urchin of tender years, at the approach of one of these minions of the la v, testifies to the wholesome regard in which he is LONDON. 53 lield. Still, in my humble opinion, it would prove beneficial if some law were passed, forcing a constable lo retire on double pay and a chromo on his attaining his iioth year, for at present nothing but some flagrant breach of duty, such as getting a leg broken on duty and the like, entails dismissal from the force. The Press is in a flourishing condition in this forest city, no fewer than five, if not six, papers being issued daily and weekly. These are " The Week's Doings," '•The Free Press," "The Jones' College Courier," " The Advertiser," and I believe another one called the " Herald." This I don't positively swear to, mere- ly having been informed that such a paper is in exist- ence. Nor must I omit to mention the " Home Journal," a quarterly issue, admirably fulfilling its mis- sion as a fire igniter, and many a housemaid blesses this little sheet which "do burn so bittiful." It con- tains challenges, breathing Saul-like, threatenings and slaughter, to any rival. Looking over one of these challenges a short while ago, I observed the following quotation (concerning some alleged misstatements as to the circulation of that journal,) " Remem- ber that he who steals my purse steals trash, but he who takes away my good name " (impossible in this case,) " enriches not himself but makes me poor, in- deed." Had 1 my choice in this instance, I can say that, without any hesitation, I would take the purse, empty tliough it would surely prove, for it is a difficult matter to take from anyone that which he never had. But for all that, many a good article appears in the " Home Journal," as it is extensively used by butchers and grocers for the |)urpose of wrapping sausages and butter in. It is adapted to any religion, being a com- ^11 "if ■' jl ^1 i 54 LONDON. pound of Quaker Presbytero-Baptist-Mormo-Episcopal- Roman-Catholicism, and 1 sincerely wish it and its proprietor every success — as combustibles — both in this world and the next. I regret to say that we are threatened with a serious calamity, from the fact that the valuable war news of the '' Week's Doings " is likely soon to cease, on account of the unparallelled insolence of the special correspondent at the seat of war, who threatens to leave the staff of that paper on account of the insignificance of his salary ; actually having the hardihood to hint that he finds it impossi- ble to exist, and tell lies in any comfort, on his present stipend of o per diem and pay his travelling expenses. Should any like calamity happen to the " College Courier," I can scarcely realize the conse(iuences, as the stoppage of that periodical might prove more dis- astrous than one can easily picture to himself, con- taining, as it does such admirable recipes for the remov- al of freckles and tan from the negro, with timely sug- gestions as to the surest method of raising luxuriant side-whiskers on a mangold wurtzel. Ye Gods forbid that we should ever suffer so great a disaster. May the shadow of Groans &: Jerk's paper never diminish, but may it live forever, and flourish to flagellate any ^-currie- lons adversary, as it has ever done. And now I will take leave of my subject. I will bid farewell to thee, oh ! peerless City of the West. Go on and prosper. It shall ever be my proudest boast to say that, though I have beheld other cities of renown as great as thine, though I have wandered through the noble streetsof Paris and St. Petersburg, though I have gazed in admiration on the glittering minarets of Constantinople, and the gorgeous mosques LONDON. 55 of Calcutta, though I have meandered about Fetrolia and inhaled the oleaginous breezes peculiar to that spot, I never yet have seen thine equal — for mud ; for contentions among the learned (especially the medical) })rofessions ; for a corporation composed of such a benight (r^^y* I ^vill not finish that sentence ; 'twere better not ; yet will I never apppoUlygize,) in fact, for everything that conduces to the happiness of man-kind, and for all things which combine to make existence bearable. Go on, I say, and be prosperous, virtuous and happy. It shall ever be a pleasure to me to think that I have seen thee — and lived. Adieu, adieu. Had I the pen of a Tennyson, a Byron or a Burr- Plumb I would embalm thee in song. But not pos- sessing that necessary article, I can but hand down to posterity the foregoing veracious description of thee. I am neither George Washington nor the editor of the " Home Journal," yet I cannot tell a lie. Again, adieu. i i THE LEGEND OF THE ASPEN. -^c—" .fo;NOWES'r thou why the aspen trembletli ^^ When no breath of air is moving ? I will try if 1 can tell you, Should you wish to hear the Legend. At the sad, eventful moment. When on Calvary our Saviour High upon the cross was hanging, Suffering to redeem the sinful, When the sun was veiled in mourning. Naught was heard : the birds were silent, Beasts of prey hid, all affrighted, Naught but trees and flowers whispered To themselves the sacred story ; And the tall and stately cedars Waved themselves in ghostly chorus. And the violet from that moment. 1 1> THK i.K(;end of the aspfn. 57 lireathing out her fragrant odors, Incense to the suffering Saviour, Ever has remained in mourning. And the cypress softly whispered : " I, in memory of this hour, K'er will be a tree of mourning." And the weeping willow, sighing, Bowed down Unv her sorrowing branches Deej) into the stream, Euphrates. Then there came a light wind stealing Through the sultry air of twilight. It was Ashtaroth. Death's angel, Drawing nigh and as ascended To the Heavens, that moan of sorrow. " Eloi lama, sabacthani," *' Why, my (iod, am I forsaken ?" Every tree and flower trembled Save the proud and haughty aspen, Which alone stood there unmoved. "' \\'h\' should ICY feel for thy sorrows ? We are pure, we trees and flowers. We, as vet, have never sinned." Thus the aspen spake, and stirred not. lUit the angel took a goblet Filled with blood of our Redeemer, And upon the aspen poured it. Then the tree was seized with trembling. And since then it shakes and trembles. With a palsy that is ceaseless, ^Vhen no wind among its branches H J •!< W 5« THK LKGKNl) OF TMK ASPKN. Murmur, still it shakes and trcnil)les; Hence it's name, the trembling aspen: This the Legend from the (ierman. •' WRECK OF THE ORIENT," DECKMIiKk, 1869. I. ILENCE o'er the deep was reigning, "0 And the winds were gone to rest, Not :i ripple broke the stillness Of the sleeping ocean's breast. .\nd the moon was slowly rising, Casting all it's silvery light ( )n a noble, lofty vessel, Lying there becalmed that night. See each sail, how idly flap[)ing '(iainst the tall and tapering mast, Ohl thou doomed, ill-fated vessel, Soon thy glory will be past. II. The morning breaks, how changed the scone, What an awesome, fearful sight I 'I'he wild waves roar, the temi)est shrieks, And the sun scarce shows it's light. 1 '!#; 6o WRFXK OF THK ORIENT. Hark ! hark ! 'tis a gun, or a thunder clap, 'I'hat booms yon sullen roar, ( )r can it be but the raging surf As it breaks on the rocky shore ? No, 'tis a gun from that fated ship, 'i'hat ship that's now -no more. No more she'll proudly ride the wave. Nor bound like courser freed, For she is gone, and her gallant crew Are numbered with the dead. ■-,««l5Mtl^sito.^ • THE le(;eni) of LAKE QU'APPELLE. 5^^0ME two miles to the North-west of \Vinnipel^^ in the Province of Manitoba, and separated from that busy Httle city by large tracts of rollii\u prairie, is Lake Qu'appelle, at the western end of the valley of the same name. The valley itself is a most picturesque iind romantic spot. As the traveller approaches it from the south- east, he receives no intimation of its existence till fairly in the vale itself, and he is taken com|)letely l)\ surprise when, on descending a steep, narrow gorge. some half a mile in length, on either side of which rise tremendously high and precipitous hills, the beau- tiful Valley of Qu'appelle bursts upon his vision. Stretching in front of him, as fiir as the eye can reach, lies this lovely vale, through whic h the river Qu'np- jjelle takes its winding course, 'i'he road runs through- out the valley, now along the steep hillsides, and again on the plain which lies between the mountains and which extends for miles on an almost dead le\ el. 62 THK LPIGEXn OK I-AKF: qu appkllic. it having evidently been at some remote period entirely covered by water, thus forming a vast lake, the only remnant of which now is the present Lake Qu'a[)pelle. One can form some idea of what the beauty of this region must have been, from the scenery presented by the comparatively small body of water still remaining, with lofty hills on either side clothed with pines, oaks, and other trees, and down whoso sides leap bright and sparkling rills, to join the lake below. The silence is broken in the day time only by the i)iercing scream of the eagle ; the cooing of the dove, or the songs and shouts of the drivers of the trading trains, which wend their way each summer towards the Saskatchewan ; whilst at night nothing is heard but the plaintiff note of the Whip-poor-will, or the howl of the hungry wolf, prowling along the lone lake shore. It was my good fortune to behold the Qu'appelle Valley in the loveliest season of the year. It was during the Indian summer that I passed through it, spending some days on the banks of the lake : and it presented a perfectly lovely scene ; the many tinted foliage of the trees on the hill sides reflected as in a mirror in the blue clear waters of the lake ; the grace- ful swan and other waterfowl, floating calmly on its placid bosom : and over all, that faint, blue haze, so characteristic of this jjarticular season of the year. Hie Indian wigwams on the lake shore added to the picturesqueness of the ^jcene, nd it was in one of these that I heard related, by a stolid old brave, the le- gend I propose to tell ; 1 do not vouch for the truth of it, but the narrator evidently firmly believed it him- self; or if he did not, he was certainly the most talented Eli THE LEGKNl) OK [,AKE (jU APPKM.K 63 andimi)ressive liarl ever listened to. Often did I ast end the highest hill in the neighhourhood, when the moon was bathing all things in floods of glorious silvery shtcn ; the Lake itself appearing as one mass of gHttering, sparkling molten metal ; and I could scarcely wonder at the many strange legends connected with the sj)()t, which the Indians have handed down from generation to generation, so romantic and legend-inspiring seems the place. The story which follows,- tells of an occurrence said to have taken plac^ long, long ago, and is supposed to have given the names, which they now bear, to the Lake, Valley and River of Qu'appelle ; tho' I fail in a great measure to comprehend how the Indian hero of the legend had acquired a knowledge of the French lan- guage ; I only give it as it was related to me ; th )Ugh I must say I have my doubts concerning the whole story, as, though I gave the mysterious voice every op- portunity to address me, I never heard the faintest whis- per of a supernatural character ; ther is one thing con- nected with this valley, however, which may tend to throw some light on the origin of the Legend, and that is the very remarkable echo prevalent almost througn- out the vale, more especially in the immediate vicinity of the present lake ; and many weird and strange effects were produced by the sound of a few notes on the bugle. Happening to give vent to a somewhat lusty burst of laughter, I was immediately surrounded by such a cho- rus of jolly, rollicking ' Ha, ha, has' that I could have believed, had I been superstitious, that I was in the midst of a vast assembly of jovial, invisible mountain sprites. 64 THE LEGEND OF LAKE QU APPELLK. N 07V for the Legend^ Many a year has passed and fled And vnth the past is numbered, Since, in the sunset's golden light. The lake and valley slumbered. I'rom out the woods upon the hills Now and again is heard. The mournful song of the whip-poor-will. And scream of the devil-bird ; The sun is gone, yet still the sky Is glowing in the west And all its brilliant colours are Reflected in the breast Unruffled, placid, of the lake O'er which the evening wind Sweeps softly on, so gently. It leaves no trace behind ; Not e'en a ripple marks its course. Hut calm the water lies, And only now and then a plash Shows where the whitefish rise. lUit see, near yonder shaded point. A birch canoe darts forth, And, swiftly glid'.ng o'er the lake, Steers on toward the north. One solitary Indian brave, With supple, brawny arm, The paddle dips, so stealthily That he scarce disturbs the calm THE LEGEND OF LAKE QU'aPPELLE. ^>5 Of the sleeping lake ; but so light his boat So strong his s'newy hand That one firm sweep of his paddle bears Him many a yard from land. But see what means that sudden ])ause ? What means that look of fear ? A voice is born from off the land, And greets his wondering ear. His name he hears, distinct and plain, Come wafted on the breeze. But though he gazes keenly round, No human form he sees ; He anxious waits, but all is still. His way once more he takes. But as his paddle dips, again That voice the stillness breaks, He turns his face toward the shore. And paddles for the land, " And soon he steps in doubt and fear Upon the golden sand. (^)u'appelle ? " he cries ; ''who calls my name ?" No answer ; once again He shouts '' Qu'appelle?" still over all A silence deep doth reign. Advancing now towards the woods, O'er which the evening shades Are creeping slow, he passes on Thro' dark and gloomy glades : He pauses : Yes, he hears his name, And now he knows the voice : . tt til ,1 Js H THE LEGEND OF LAKE QU'aPPELLE. f ' ' ris that of her, his promised bride ; How doth his heart rejoice ! 'I'o think that she is here : but then Alone ! and at this hour : "ris strange ! yet still he presses on With all his might and power. Now straight ahead he hears the voice, Now here, now there again : While, in the pine trees ove' ead. He hears a low refrain. Like the low death-wail of his tribe. He feels a creeping chill Come over him as he hears the sound, His heart will not be still, Hut bounds and leaps like a fettered deer ; Again he hears his name : The voice is that of his darling love, The accents are the same : Vet naught he sees : *' Qu'appelle?" he cries. But echo mocks his call : He dashes madly down the hill, In spite of many a fall : He darts away in bis light canoe Towards the northern side. Where, in the morning, he had left His darling and his pride. The waters foam as he dashes on. The spray flies from his prow, Till straight ahead, where the camp-fires gU^m, He sees his wigwam now. THE LEGEND OF LAKE yU'APPELLK. C'7 'I'he land is reached : he springs ashore ; What is this sight he sees ? \Vhat is this sound of waiHng Which comes upon the breeze ? Towards a sorrowing group he strides, Of warriors, strong and bold : *'What meaneth this?" he cries. They point To a still fair form, " Behold : Behold," they say : " This is thy bride. Thy bride that was to be : v W^ith the last sweet tones of her dying voice, She called in vain for thee : Thou earnest not : now she is gone To that fair hunting ground, Where such true pleasure can be had As cannot here be found : ''f Twas as the sun in glorious hues Was setting in the west, That she called loudly on thy name, Then peaceful sank to rest." And then the warrior knew what voice Had called him from the hill ; That voice which he should hear no more. Those tones for ever still. Deep grief came o'er him : ne'er again Could he fulfil his place : For he had ever foremost been In war, or in the chase. 68 THE LKGEND OF LAKE ()V APPELLE. Each day he sad and sadder grew, And ere three moons passed l)y He joined his cherished love once more In the lands beyond the sky. Still may the traveller near that lake, At sunset's glowing hour, Hear voices call from out the woods, With strange, unnatural power. Bat though I waited many an hour When all was still around, I cannot say with any truth That I ever heard a sound Which was not natural : still, of course, The Legend must be true : And I, for one, have not a doubt That 'tis so : nor should you. A FRAGMENT. >>vy^HEN thf* vvi js of angels rustic in the silent Vc^ midni^^ht air, Spirits round my chamber hover, spirits from I know not wher*^, Never speakii ^, only flitting in each nook and corner there. When the earth is wrapped in slumber, those departed come again, And fill all my silent chamber vvith their forms distinct and plain, Though their earthly bodies long have in the gloomy churchyard lain. . I can hear them as they flutter, I can see these airy things, As they, restless, glide around me softly on their snowy wings. Chanting low, melodious music : singing as an angel sings. Every night, by me expected, come these weird, un- e^.rthly guests, I n 70 A FRAGMENT. Always at the midnight hour ; and the pale cold moonlight rests On their strange and solemn features : on their hands cross't on their breasts. Every midnight I await them : soon I hear the low- refrain Of their music, which seems telling part of pleasure, part of pain ; And towards the dawn they vanish, but I know they'll come again. Is it but imagination? No, it seems too real to be : What, then, are these phantom beings ? Why do they thus visit me? 'Tis a mystery : I shall solve it in the far futurity. ^;:^-^r^^^^ J? y ""^ TO A LADY. Q HOULD these poor verses meet thine eye ^ Whenever we may parted be, Oh ! let thy memory backward fly And give one fleeting thought to me. And as thou gazest on these lines, Should we be parted — banish sorrow Behind dark clouds the sun still shines, And a brighter day may come to-morrow. But should we never meet again, My thoughts will ever be with thee : ( )h ! may my memofy e'er remain With thee, as thine, 1 trust, with me. • ! I I ' : I ■ I : :' f IMPROMPTU, FOR A LADY'S ALBUM. jp\EAR Ethel, to-day we arc happy together, cfe- V^et we know not how long may our hapj)iness last ; Our affections now warm, like the down on a feather, May he rudely disturbed by the breath of the blast Of misfortune : yet still is the future uncertain : Who knows what the day may bring forth? could I Through the dark pall-like folds of Futurity's curtain, I should wish to behold us together for aye. • Hut though seas may be rolling between us and raging, And leagues of wide ocean oi." fond hearts may sever. Though wars through the worlc , nations fierce may be waging, My thoughts and best wishes go with thee forever. LONGING. r, St I r, )e r. ^Vl\yrHENF/ER a spirit takes the form to tread the y^ paths of mortals, And just before it I )idsadieu at Heaven's celestial portals, 'I'he Father says : '* You have, my ( hild, my ever\ boon and blessing, Which patient laboring and love are worthy of pos- sessing, Save one, and that, lest in the world's absorbing \aiii endeavor \'ou should forget your Father's house and stray away forever, I'll keep till you return : 'Tis sweet." 'I'he two are borne asunder : 'i'he Father to a mystic land : the child to life and wonder ; And there through years, for the boon withheld arc wishes ever thronging, And this is what we creatures call the bitter-sweet of longing. J ; 1 1 UNSEEN. ■n T a sj)ring of an arch in the great north to\\\ v. High up on the w.ill is an angel's head, And heneatli it is carven a Hly flower, With dehcate wings at the side outsj)read. 'I'hey say that the sculptor wrought from the face Of his youth's lost love, of his promised bride, And when he had added the last sad grace To the features, he dropped his chisel and died. And the worshippers throng to the shrine below, And the sight seers come with their curious eyes. }Uit deep in the sliadow, where none may know Its beauty, the gem of his carving lies. Vet at early morn, on a midsummer's day. When the sun is far to 'he north, for the space Of a few short minutes there falls a ray. Through an amber fane, on an angel's face. [t was wrought for the eye of (jod, and it seems Hiat He blesses the work of the dead man's hand. VV^ith a ray of the golden light that streams On the lost that are found in the deathless land. TO FANNY. 'S. and d. \ 1^:7^ HEN the whip-poor-will's song through the yever, And tear me away, oh ! my darling from thee. Oh ! shall I e'er see thee again, shall I meet thee. And gaze on thy well-beloved features once more ? Or shall I be never ])ermitted to greet thee Till the time when we meet where all i)artings are o'er? TO EMMA. -_>•-» ,\1h^HEN the breeze through the forest is whis- Yo pering and murmuring, Making .4*^ohan music above ; I'o each stately tree, and to each perfumed blossom, Telling cf love, Ihen do fond thoughts of ^/lee, dearest, rushing come o'er me, And I wish with a wish, nigh resistless, to be The breeze which is whispering sweet words of affec- tion, And thou the tree. I'hough thou art a flower of radiant beauty, 1 know that a tempest too, too strong am I, I only can rush like blast of the north wmd, I cannot sigh Like the sweet evening breezes, whose low dulcet mu- sic Speaks to the flow'rets of all that is love. TO EMMA. 75 Too strong are my passions ; my pattern the eagle And thine — the dove. 1 )cspise not the love which a true heart can offer And cast not away what you ne'er may regain, Vor words that are honied oft bring to the hearer Sorrow and pain. whis- ssom. come affec- t mu- EVA MAY, SET rO MUSIC. '^^^ES, "tls long since llrst \ven>ct, ''S^' Many a year has passed away : But I never can forget Our meeting on that distant day. ( liorus Angels bright with snowy vnngs Hover o'er thy grave to day : While t' . death bell slowly rings Riii^'< rhe knell of Eva May, Spring was rip'ning into summer Fresh and green all nature shone Loudly in the hawthorn bushes Rang the black-birds silvery tone. Chorus. Angels bright &c. While the lark on high was singing Car^/ls blithe in thankful praise l|: EVA MAY. ly) Notes of Jc) lo Heavcit ringing Nature's own unstudied ];us. ( 'honis. Angels bright &c. Through the meadow necj 'h^ ;iver That fair stream whose waters l)right in the sunbeams dance and (juiver. Came thy footsteps soft and Hght. Chorus. Angels bright &c. That was where 1 met thee, Kva ; Since then years have passed away. Hut I shall forget thee — never, For it seems but yesterday. Chorus. Angels bright, &c. Thou wast fair as fairest flower. Vet death marked thee for his own. And with strong resistless power Took thee, leaving me alone. i ^lorus. Angels bright with snowy Vv'ings Hover o'er thy f ave today : While the death-hcil s'ovty nngs, Rings the knell i ¥a: May. im^ ■.«flP^^Y?^j^ai»^ '>r- '^■Ah.v i'i li A WISH. QSl tN the shore, the lonely shore, Where the summer wavelets break, Where no wintry billows roar, Where the sea is evermore Rolling on, rolling on, That is where I fain would be, Upon that ^'lore beside the sea ; Where the gentle zephyr murmurs To the solemn cypress tree, Whispers words of fond affection ; Where the sky is but reflection Of the peaceful, placid sea : Where untrodden grasses grow. Where the flowers no footsteps know, Lonely, lonely : all is dreary, Life is gloomy, sad and weary ; Oh ! that on the ocean's breast I could die, and thence be taken Where wickedness is all forsaken, And the weary are at rest. IN MEMORIAM, W. H. T. Obiit Nor. xi. y^tat xxxiii INCi sadly, ye bells, for the knell ye are tolling f^ Is that of a fritiid who forever has left us, And mournful thy ones or\ the calm air come rolling, Bringing sad th ughts of him of whom Death has bereft us. But why should we mourn? He is happy forever ; His \\iii when on eartl was e'er upright and true : From the stern path of duty he stept aside never, Than the good he has done, more no mortal could do. Did the poor lack a friend, in him they would find him ; From those w^ho were needy he ne'er turned away, And many a sad heart, tho' humble, behind him Remains, which will mourn for that true friend to-day. K ; I 82 IN MEMORIAM, W. H. T. Ikit calmly he bowed to the will of that Being Who has called him away from earth's sorrows and strife, For he knew it was heat that the Father all-seeing Should take him, though yet in the summer of life. Near the scene of his labors he is peacefully sleeping, And the breeze through the pine trees which rise overhead Sounds mournful and sad, like the unrestrained weep- ing Of one who was dear to the slumbering dead. Never on earth to his words shall we listen, Closed are his lips in the calm sleep of r3eath : And many an eye with the tear drop will glisten, As it looks on the mound which he slumbers beneath. Toll bells : murmur bree/.t;s, his praises be telling, Sing softly the requiem of him who has gone, horus of angels is swelling While in heaven th« In joy that by him is the golden crown won. London, Nov. 13, 187 e. it* P- NEW YEAR BELLS. h. "t|j?ARK"! hark ! on the midnight air ^Ji^- " The sound of bells is borne : It is the chime of the church bells ringing The old year out : on the night-air singing Hail to the New Year morn. E'en the most reckless pause to listen, In the eyes of many the tear drops glisten, For they think of the Past, and the happiest times Of their lives are recalled by the sound of the chimes Ring on, sweet bells, ring on. ^^f€^ -,i>.- LAYS OF MODERN LONDON. IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) A 1.0 I.I 11.25 KiKS |2.5 ISO "^^ III^H 1.4 mil 1.6 — 6" ^^ vl / Hiotographic Sdences Corporation 23 WEST MAIN STREET WEBSTER, N.Y. 14580 (716) 872-4503 iV m L1>' \ ;\ <«>\^\ ^^ 4l^ 9)^ J z QUIVA VIVA. Ve Great Strife between Ye Two Boys in Blue^ yclept Sir Dickon Wigless &* Sir Karl de Woode, with Ye Victorie of Ye Latter. ^HEN up spake bold Sir Karl de Woode : a dough- ^ ty knigiit was he, And worthy of his coat of arms — fur cap from "ear- lugs " free ; One muffler " rampant " on blue ground : two batons ; whilst below, His motto, " Quiva Viva," which those who ought to know. Say meaneth — nothing. Whilst above, a helmet with a plume Of FEATHERS WHITE, which, clear and bright, gleamed like the frothy spume Upon the sea-shore. Uprose he, the spokesman of the band, ss QUIVA VIVA. . I (( f And gave forth speech in accent "braid" which smacked of Scotia's land. In very sooth he was a knight who hailed from north the Tweed, And it were better far for all had he stayed there indeed: Now, Dickon Wigless, thee I charge, with misde- meanors grave, ris time some champion should come forth to teach thee to behave — And I'm the man. There is thy shield whose heraldic device I see is Bourbon bottles three, dipped in a pail of ice. With corkscrews crossed ; and I perceive that the supporters are Two boys in blue who sleeping stand beneath the midnight star. Thy motto too which proudly boasts what thou art fit to do, ' Suspendam et suspendar,' heaven grant it may prove true. Thou art the knight the people call ' Le Chevalier nez rouge ;' They say that thou hast screened thyself by many a subterfuge From punishment thou didst deserve : come tell me, is this true? For I myself am good as thou, for I'm a Boy in Blue. I charge thee first with being drunk, ' tight,' ' off,' * fresh,' ' sprung,' and ' slewed,^ * Demoralized,' ' not right side up,' ' drunk as a lord ' and * screwed.' QtJlVA VIVA. 89 All these I lay against thee : say now, are they true or not ? Come answer me I crave thee, lest 1 brain thee on the s^>ot, As once I slew a little ' dorg,' who, whining down the street. Came up to me, and licked my hand, as I slept on my beat. I woke ! I drew my oaken stave, I brained him there and then. But oh ! at midnight hour that ' purp ' comes to my bedside ben, And gazes with his eyes, which glow like sunsliinc through a fog : Oh I horror, that I never thus had slain that little dog. For now no peack of mind have I, a meal I .scarce can eat, I fear to find a piece of him amongst the sausage meat. I did the deed. I charge thee next with not being quite correct In casli accounts : now tell me true, is this as I suspect? That thou didst keep, appropriate, and use what thou didst get For me ? Thou didst, thou know'st it, 'twill all come right you bet, Or wrong. That is, the right for me, the wrong i leave to thee. For, ere a month hath passed away. Chief Bobby I will be. And loud will ring the people's shout, more loud than all belief, 90 QUIVA VIVA. *0h ! Dickon bold has gone to grass, and Karl de Woode is Chief.'" Then spake Sir Dickon : " Karl de Woode, thou art a puissant knight. The things which thou revealest put me in an awful fright. All that I did, I thought I did, to benefit the force. But things are liable to be misconstrued, and of course I'm not appreciated as a Chieftain, still I think, Sir Karl de Woode, 'twould be as well to go and have a drink. For I feel dry and parched with thirst, so let's adjourn from here." x\nd drawing forth his handkerchief, he dropped a maudlin tear. " Now out upon thee for a knave ; thou know'st, at least thou oughter (!!!) There's naught so good for youthful blood as clear and sparkling water : And I belong to Morrylle Lodge, G. T., one eighty-one; But now I pause, bold Dickon, my time is nearly done; The earth shall ring with my exploits, the whole world shall be told. How bold Sir Dickon kept the cash in the brave davs of old. Sir Dickon, solus. "That Karl de Woode will give me fits, whatever shall I do ? I wish I'd been a better man towards these Boys in Blue. QUIVA VIVA. 91 I little thought that one of them would ever act as spy : I thought them all as good and true and sober men as 1, But 'tis not thus — and here I am, I'm in a precious fix : I wish I'd treated Karl de Woode with kisses, not with kicks : My high position then I might have some hopes to retain, But as it is, I feel that I shall never it regain. I feel that now my time has come, and I am going under. I wish I'd been a better boy, I do, by Jove and thunder ! But cheer up, Dickon, don't despond ; yes, keep your spirits up. I'll strive to drown my conscience in the sorrow stifling cup; I'll take a drink, as Byron savs, it makes a man all hunk, And man a rational being is, and therefore must get drunk. If drunkenness proves reason, 'tis plainly seen that I Must be the man most sensible, beneath the blessed sky. (He WOULD have said this had he read the poet quoted here. But then he'd not, for he was born and bred a car- pentier.) Still I will trust, if must be must, to compass and to square : 92 QUIVA VIVA. i!»^ I feel that things may come all right — what's that? Hi, who is there ?" [Enter the Knight of the White Plume, Sir K. deWoode.] ** 'Tis I, Sir Dickon : now I bring the third charge which I have Against thee : pray to heaven for aid, for naught else can thee save ; So long thou hast been lord of all, and ruled'st over us, And even called me, Sir Karl, a sanctimonious cuss, Wipe out those words with blood I will — yes, blood that won't out rub — So take them l)ack, ere on this spot I shoot thee with my club. The anger of the Karl de Woode is fierce as ary lion. And far be it from me to try, successfully, to spy on Thy deeds, Sir Wigless ; were I such a man I should not be whole ; [Aside. (Though true it is I heard his .speech, as I stood near the keyhole.) No, never ! I'm religious ! I say my little prayers Each night before I take my way towards my bed upstairs. I pray that I may do all deeds of wrong, and never catch it, And never tell a lie. I've read of George's little hatchet, I keep a diary, that is true, but strange it seems to me, That I so strangely have mislaid, that one for seventy- three. QUFVA VIVA. 93 [Places his finger to his proboscis with a fiendish leer.] I know 1 always wash my shirts, but where 1 wash them, ask The Ladye Templare, for one time she caught me at the task : But that is nothing, let me pass, to Dickon's charges here : Thou once, and twice, and thrice didst bid me let a culprit clear ; One nigger whom I'd captured, he was my lawful prey. And thou didst bid me let him go, and let him clear away ; I let him go, I know 'twas wrong; I was a fool, ah ! ha ! (And echo, with her mimic voice, said, 'Karl de Woode, you are.') But when I'm Chief, I tell thee what, I know what I shall be : A devil on the soakers, and the first one shall be thee. The papers too, the glorious press, both weekly and diurnal, Shall say how for my benefit I kept my little 'journal.' " Sir Dickon left, weeping bitter tears of repentance. Sir Karl de Woode; frantiv-ally wiping his hairless pate, and vowing vengeance against mankind generally, and hunting for his 1873 diary ! Scene. Sir K. de Woode in his baronial boarding house, carefully brushing his two remaining hairs, and :;oliloquizing as follows : "Now^ let me think, perhaps I've been a little too severe 9^ OUIVA N'lVA. On this poor individual, and then again I fear That after all, I may not be elected as the Chief 1 wish I knew for certain, 'twould be a great relief. I think I'm just 'Jie man : religious, bold and true, I feel that I'm the very man to be chief Boy in Blue : Yet something tells me not to crow till I'm outside the wood; I wonder how the name would look — Captynge de Karl de Woode. It sounds first-rate : (Oh I gentle Heaven, do lend thy gracious aid. And grant that I may shortly be the chiefest Bobby made. ) iVIy head is in a whirl : 'tis time that I was something more Than what 1 am : Vm growing old, I'm nearly forty- four. I'm getting bald : my shoulders stoop : the few hairs that remain Are turning grey : my eyesight too is poor : I'm on the wane. 'Tis no use shillyshallying, no, certainly 'tis not. So let me go ahead, and strike the iron whilst 'tis hot. Yet still I feel a tenderness towards Sir Dickon here, He is not altogether bad : some good bits here and there In Dickon Wigless' character by searching may be seen, But they like angels' visits are, so few and far between. So now, I'll go and see Sir Dick, but first I'll say my prayers, For Satan lurketh e'er around, to snatch us unawares. QUIVA VIVA. 95 And no one knows when he is nigh : Sir Dickon was not right To call me sanctimonious, and .i blarsled hypocryte. But stay : where is my journal for eightef*n seventy- three ? 1 must not leave that lying round, but constantly with me Must keep it, though 'tis true, 1 told those scriveners in court, 'I'hat I had lost it : p'rhaps 'twas wrong, I know 1 never ought To tell a lie : George Washington could not : 1 can, and do. But then, I don't like any one to know I don't speak true. They say I went with VVigless to catch the sale of brandy And other lush on Sundays, and took a pound of candy As payment for my services : I never did I swear ; Upon my word the way they use this martyr isn't fair: But now for Die kr^ : where he is I really do not know, But towards th use of James de Smyth, I think I'd better go.' [Strides out to interview Sir Dickon, and finds him as he surmised, quaffing divers goblets, at Jimmie de Smyth's hostelrie ; and calling all present to drain the wine cup to Sir Karl de Woode's confusion, urbanely insisting on permitting those invited to pay for their own potations.] # # * * # # 96 (^UIVA VIVA. r; riic trial drags its weary length this many an irksome day. Sir Karl de VVoode is anxious, and daily grows more grey ; He feels hvs fate is in the scale: if victory crowns his brow, He knows that he will not remain as low as he is now ', He feels that if he loses, and Sir Dickon goeth back As Chief, 'tis highly i)robable that he will get the sack. And this would never suit at all: tho' strange it seems and funny, The canny, cautious Scot is contemplating matrimony, And on a damsel, fair to see, of summers sixty-four. Has cast his eye, and snared her heart with its love-lit glamour: (Oh ! wily Karl, to steal that pure and trusting virgin'?^ heart. To wish to dwell with her for aye, till death shall you two jjart : To give her all your hoarded wealth, and all your w^orldly pelf : But then, she'll do your washing, which now you do yourself ! ) And so. Sir Karl is anxious, and would not lose his 'sit;' But still he thinks he has a chance, which cheers him up a bit. IJefended by the Vitreous One, Q. C, and God knows wlat. He thinks that he is pretty safe : but then, perhaps he's not. Sir Dickon fortifies himself w4th various goes of grog, QUIVA VIVA. 97 And through the contest bcani himself as ;i. ^ay and careless dog Which has two tails: he knows full well, this influen- tial Brother, That if one tail is taken off, then he can wag the other. Mis counsel too is able: of much abilitie Judge Merydithie, Queen's Counsel, and M.IMMMV He knows that he will do his best, and try to pull him through : And brightly glows his lambent nose, first red, then j)ink, then blue. Chameleon-like, its hues all change as matters take a turn. And fiercely on Sir Karl de Woode his bright eyes glower and burn : But little recks Sir Karl de Woode: he sends his prayers adrift At divers intervals, and to heaven his pious eyes doth lift: Oh ! well he feels how good it is a (Christian Boy to be, So fireth off occasional piayers, like minute gun.] at sea. Inside his breast, securely hid from sight of legal limbs, His Bible — Diary seventy-three — and a Book of Watts' Hymns, He feels secure in Heaven's smiles: it is a splendid plan. To sin just as one pleases and act the righteous man : 'Tis common, too, to do so : an elder of the church May lead poor girls astray, and then — just leave them in the lurch : M 98 QUIVA VIVA. 'T" The thing's been done, not long ago — but let the subject drop: Tis not a ^.leasant one at all, and not at all aprop: Of this great contest, which convulsed this famous London city. And moved the tender hearts of all for Karl de Woode with pi^v: He felt, th ^^ublic felt, that he was dr)ing what was rig? . ' In thuF .. .« voring to punish Wig for getting tight : Of cor he never wished to step inside the others' shoes : No, all he did it for was just to stop such wholesale booze : And if he wished it, could it be that nc could ever put Inside Sir Dickon's slippers his own ungodly foot? The shoeblacks say, that when Sir Karl \vas southward in Jamaica, They used to take a contract there, to black them by the acre : That is, his shoes : his foot we know, well that is black enough. In fact we rather do suspect that that laf^e foot's — a hoof: I hope in speaking thus I tread but lightly on their corns. Sir Karl de Woode has got the hoof; Sir Dickon's got the " horns." But now the trial to a close is swiftly drawing near, QUIVA VIVA. 99 IS I And each of these contestants feels the " leetlest " touch of fear. The witnesses give evidence, in number near a score : Harry o Phoule, and Enoch Spudde, and Constab'es galore; The friar Rowan to the front comes with his common sense, And boldly from his burly form hurls out his evidence. Some swear Sir Dickon never drank ; some vow, from last October, That not a single day passed by and saw Sir Dickon sober ; Some say he never got the cash ; some say 'twould be a sin To say that anybody else but Dickon got the tin. However that may be, at length the upshot of this shine Was that Sir Dickon's counsel said, " I think you'd best resign." On hearing which, Sir Karl de VVoode gave one faint, feeble cheer. And called the whole force to a feast of buns and ginger beer: With pea-nuts, candies, oh! I vow, each member ate his fill; Then Karl de Woode — the doughty knight, gave to each man his bill ! Then homeward took his joyous way: how glorious he doth feel ! Oh! to be home in Scotia's land, to dance the festive reel. roo QUIVA VIVA. And now no fear of sack hath he ; his loved one's mature charms vShall soon be safely clasped within those brawny knightly arms. Some news he hears he likes not well ; he thought he might be Chief, But now a rumor gets abroad, which shakes this small belief. He now avers he never thought, in fact he did not want to He Chief. He waives his claim, and votes for Wyll- yams from Toronto. J^ f^:' ^ YE PROVINCIAL FAIRE. MT length th' eventful week has come : the great Provincial Fair Is started : all the wo .'-Id and wife and children will be there : Full many a lusty Chawbacon will greet our wonder- ing sight, With raiment of outlandish cut, and quaint attire bedight. Old Farmer Scroggins, with his tribe, will come the show to see, With six or seven stalwart sons, and buxom daughters three : 'Tis strange to see these country folk, with wide mouth all agape. And eyes all open, till we think they'll ne'er regain their shape : Behold the rural damsel partake her festive lunch. I02 YE PROVINCIAL FAIRE. A foot of melon in one hand, of gingerbread a bunch Firm clutched in t'other, strongly grasped, she holds secure and tight, And first of melon, then of cake, she takes a varied bite: The eldest son, too, gay equipped in all his Sunday best, ' Plug ' hat, a coat of velveteen, his grandsire's scarlet vest : Th' Adonis of the village : he feels that he is here To show himself, and let folks know he's by no means small beer. Behold his glossy locks, how bright ! they shine from roots to tips, And hang resplendent round his poll, like pounds of farthing dips. His marrow oil — sweet scented grease from off the axletree : Oh [ surely, on the ground there's not another such as he. The hayseed fondly clings to him : the thistle's prickly spine Is not relinquished : on the air the odour as of swine Comes floating as we near him, and as we take our place Beside him, we perceive perfumes which mark the equine race. Draw nigh and listen to his speech : give ear, ye wor- thy sirs all : How learned his opinion is on beets and mangel- wurzel : YE PROVINCIAL FAIRE. 103 How fondly doth his soft eye rest upon the luscious pumpkin : Recalling many a thought of pies to this poor rustic bumpkin. Yet, honest Giles, you are the man that Canada most needs. Go on with agriculture, and stick to your hay seeds : Tis better far to be as you, altho' you stare and gape, Than stuck behind a counter to sell a yard of tape : And lie about your bankrupt stock ! ! ! Enormous sacrifice ! ! ! And make your customers believe you sell belo^v c^st price. Tis better far to be like you than ove. whelmed with '' cheek," And put on hundred dollar airs on dollars five a week. Full w^ell 'tis known, in spite of all your homely dress and phiz ; That you've made Canada to be the country that it is. Yes ; you deserve your holiday ; so, joyous, go ahead And may your melon well digest ; likewise your ginger- bread. Come, let us stroll about the grounds ; or the sights we shall have missed all Let's take a look at what there is in this '' palais de crystal ; " So called because 'tis built of wood ; 'tis wondrous to be said ' How^ many people live who never call a spade a spade, Yes, fashion in this country has many a curious whim, 104 YE PROVINCIAL FAIRE. A passage two feet wide's a Hall^ forsooth, a leg's a Limh\ We know it is, but then these folks so modest wont allow That it's a leg at all, but make a most outrageous row At hearing such vulgarity :— false modesty's <-he name ; I even hear them now cry out ; " For shame, k./ shame, for shame. " But I wander from my subject : so let's proceed, but stay, What means th' excitement here ? behold, a carriage stops the way ; What means that loud o'erwhelming cheer from those four little boys ? Why is not Wigless on the spot to stop this awful noise? But see, 'tis he, the Governor ! the chariot forward moves, The gallant Major now rece.'ves the homage that he loves ; Serene he gazes all around : and plainly we can see His thoughts run thus ; "why don't those folk fall down and worship me ? " His speech is short ; yet to the point ; now hear what he may say ; The small boys cheer once more ; the Majah bows and drives away. Let's go and view the pictures in this hall of wooden glass, (That is if we can get a glimpse in all this living mass,) vSome paintings are worth seeing ; here's the Bishop, here's the Pope, VE PROVINCIAI- FAIkK. ^^5 Here's the Devil ;- -what a mixture — accidental let us hope. Our Judsonne has got talent; of that there's not a doubt ; And so have I, but people here take long to find it out. I must digress when going round subscribers to secure I found, as others have before, 'twas not a sinecure ; One told me he was overwhelmed and pestered all the time By agents and tin peddlers ; and murderers of rhyme : Ye Gods ! to mingle tinkers and poets (!) in a breath, Had he not been a Majah he had met an instant death : But I stand in awe of warriors ; their voices seem mucli louder And fiercer than are other men's ; (altho' they ne'er smell powder) In fact the less of war they see, more bold they seem to be ; I can't believe that one of them could ever turn and flee, And yet the. legend sayeth that such was once the case Not long ago ; turned round and 'put,' the Fanians in chase. But no one e'er believes it ; a ten days drill each year Is surely quite sufficient to dissipate all fear, Nay ; such a tale were calumny ; I know it must be false ; An officer of volunteers turn tail and homeward waltz ! No, never ; and the reptile who inven^^ed such a tale Of our war-scarred militia should be ridden on a rail. Or set up as a target for our bold volunteers N o6 VK I'ROVrXCIAT, FA IRK. To sliool at ; tlnis his agony might be i)rol()nged for years ; There are good sliots amongst them : a barn door might be hit At thirteen yards : at shorter range they never miss a bit. But I am wandering from my theme which is iiiis mighty fair, So let's get back, or we shall lose whatever's happeJi- ing there. What glorious flowers I what lovely tints imparted by Old Sol, Abetted, and well aided, by the efforts of McColl ; What intellectual pumpkins piled uj.) in every stnll I [ would I were an elephant that I might eat them all I i lere the beet-root, so retiring, conceals its blushing face Behind a watermelon of rliinocerosian grace. And here the modest turnip will bring before the glut- ton A thought of pungent caper sauce, with juicy legs of mutton ; ' Potatoes of gigantic size, piled up on every side. With faces almost human which seem to smile with pride : ■ ■ " ^' It is a fact : I've often seen a " spud " with human features, ' ■ ' ' ■ ■'■'■'' And far, far better looking than many bi[)ed creatures. Pass on : behold the fruit ; what apples, pears and grapes : How juicy their appearance! how dropsical their shapes! 'I'hou dainty little cral)-app!e, thou harmless looking thing, i .. 1 YE PROVINCIAL TAIRE. lO' ! Yet what oceans of Pain-Killer to lounteract thy sting! 'Thus, moraHzing, let us ]3ass; and Ictus wend our \va)- Unto the show of horses, drawn up in proud array: Around this spot a motley crowd of horsey looking men S \ Is ever congregated : The aim of uj)per ten — Dom seems to be to show how much it knows about a horse, And feels in all its glory when trotting round the course The cynosure of many eyes ; talks slang like any groom, And never feels at ease unless within the saddle room Or stable, with opinions wise of spavin and ring-bone: (This fancy blood, four years ago, called not an ass his own.) Maybe his parient drove a cart, and bellowed " Sparrer- . " grass And " Caulie-flayower :" see him now I what strange things come to pass ! More honor to him, tho\ say we : in Canada we can* Point many out, and say with pride ; '' 'Inhere goes a self-made man ! *' The owner of some millions, and many a fertile acre, Yet pious, too, for well \vc know, he worshippeth his maker ! " But I'm again digressing : and night is coming on. The crowd is getting smaller : the rustics all have gone : Policemen come upon the scene : a sign by which we swear That all the rows are over, or going on elsewhere. For where the row is there shall //o/ the "pleece" be on the scene, A i io8 VE PROVINCIAL I-'AIRi:. For thus it is, and e'er shall be, as from the first 'thas been : Small blame to them : — I mean to say, in this fair for- est city — ■ . . For if they sho ^et damaged, do they meet with any pity ? ' • Perhaps they do ; 1 do not say they don't : I only meant That the ])ity that they meet with doth never cost a cent: The ' l]obl)y ' in this city has every fair excuse j lo keep well out of danger, and villainous abuse. Let one sustain an injury which lays him up for life, Such as a broken limb, or stabs from a rowdy's bowie knife. What is his consolation? "The Commissioners desire That I should let you know that they no longer now require Your services upon the force : they give you one month's pay, And wish your duties to conclude upon this very day ; We know that you're a man who never duty shirks, But as for compensation — why there's the Water Works To pe paid for ; ch ! nonsense, they could not think of t at. So go and drive at something else, or send around the hat, (Oh ! (xod forbid that I should send my hat round such a pack, I've only got but one, and I should never get it back.) And should you fail in getting work, pray don't a mo- ment lose !* YK PROVINCIAI. FA IRK. 109 first 't has IS fair for- t with any t : I only St a cent: ;e use, *or life, ^'s bowie *s desire ?er now ou one Ty day; irks, - Works •t think ind the round back. ) a mo- ■ I In making a plain statement to dear old Father Hughes. He, as you know, administers soup tickets and relief '1 o those who stand in need of it. Yours truly, Wiglass, Chief Keep out of trouble, bobbies, and round a corner go When there's a row, for that's your fate ; as well you seem to know. « ' # # # # And now the shades of night draw on ; the rustic hath betaken Himself, and all his party off home to beans and bacon ; The gas lamps glare at intervals of half a mile or so ; The reveller staggers homeward, with curses soft and low : While in the Heavens, calm, pale and clear, the god- dess of the night Beams softly down, and wraps the earth in her cold and silvery light. Each hour the night more quiet becomes ; the city sil- ent sleeps, And naught is heard but the watch dog's bark as his faithful guard he keeps : The Fair is o'er, thank Heaven for that ; for fields and pastures new Our visitors have passed away : as I will — so Adieu. •- s*' THE END