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Maps, plates, charts, etc., may be filmed at different reduction ratios. Those too large to be entirely included in one exposure are filmed beginning in the upper left hand corner, left to right and top to bottom, as many frames as required. The following diagrams illustrate the method: Les cartes, planches, tableaux, etc., peuvent dtre film^s d des taux de reduction diffdrents. Lorsque le document est trop grand pour dtre reproduit en un seul clich6. il est film6 d partir de Tangle sup6rieur gauche, de gauche d droite, et de haut en bas, en prenant le nombre d'images ndcessaire. Les diagrammes suivants illustrent la mdthode. 1 2 3 1 2 3 4 5 6 PRI ^ 4 CHARLIE CHATTERTOiV, / A MONTREAL STORY WITH ^atrt^lriHn)^ un'b Bi\tt ft^ms. BY JOH]^ RTTTHERFORD. P0ttf yeAl : PRINTED BY JOHN LOYELL ST. NICHOLAS «ItoET. 1868. — -y-"-— "o w ^ fr • — ■> " " I 1 1 /o .^y^ (^(A CONTENTS. Page /HARLIE ChATTERTON ieft and oveiitakex 49 Jhristmas Carol 117 In Memoriam 119 'ox POPULI 121 jANd o' the Maple Leaf 122 ^ERGUS AND ElORA 125 'he Mountain View 130 ?iiE Fenians are Coming 132 'e Ladies Fair 134 ["he Wayfarer's Song 136 jfUNRISE ] 37 Iabbath Evening Reflections 138 )VR Child in Heaven 139 'he Emigrant's Prayer 140 foYAGER's Hymn 142 |"e Banks and Waves of Newfoundland 143 fAREWELL 144 in ^0 HIS FRIENDS AT HOME, AND IN Canada, THE LAND OP HIS ADOPTION, JhIS little yOLUME IS RESPECTFULLY lefeSie^ijeb BY ^Ut S^utrwr. in ! 11, ([•^V*^^^^^^ C^iittcrten: A MONTR I "AL STORY. CHAPTF,k J. ,MYTHE*s my name- -S -m--y-t-h-e, not jmith — I am particular as to this, as I wish |lt to be distinctly understood that I have no :onnection with the notorious John Smith, )r anv of his class. And, having taken ^ou thus far into my confidence, I don't lind telling you, also, that I am at pres- ent boarding at No. , Bleury Street, ith Mrs. Blotcher. I say Mrs. Blotcher, For, although there is a Mr. B., he is one )f those meek, mild, submissive kind of lortals who may be described as "neither ish, flesh, fowl, nor good red herring," — Jeldom visible to the naked eye, except at leal times, when he generally manages to fake a pretty good cargo on board, asking 10 questions for conscience and his w ife*s B 10 CHARLIE dlATTEKTOW. ' I ! (' m': sake. Viewed domestically, Blotcher would have perfectly obeyed the com- mand — husbands, submit yourselves untoj your wives — had such a command ex- isted. Rising every morning, summer and winter, at 5:30, Blotcher first pro- ceeds to light the stove, and having in- 1 fused a cup of tea, carries it to Mrs. B. in bed — saws the wood, cleans the knives I and forks, and having swallowed his break- fast in solemn silence, he wipes the chil- dren's noses and disappears quietly through the back door till dinner time. Viewed pro- fessionally, Blotcher is a clerk. For fifteen long years he has occupied the same high- legged stool, in the chambers of Messrs.] Gripper & Holdem, Attorneys, in Littlel St. James Street, during the whole of which time he was never known to be absent a' single hour from business, or ever to have asked or received an advance of salary ;j on which account he is looked upon byl the firm as a most estimable and exem- plary man, and is an especial favorite with| the junior partner, Mr. Holdem. CHARLIE CIIATTERTON. 11 But things are generally pretty evenly balanced in this world, and if Mr. Blotch- er's salary is light, so are also his duties. From his earliest infancy, Blotcher has che- rished an inveterate hatred towards flies, and bluebottles are his special aversion. Woe to the unhappy one which ventures to light upon his desk, for down comes the ruler upon it, almost invariably result- ing in a deep indentation in the mahogany, and the escape of Mr. Bluebottle. One hot summer's day in July, however, he had been particularly successful, having succeeded in killing six. I observed that he was in very high spirits that day ; he wiped the children's noses a great deal oftener than appeared to be at all neces- sary, and seemed to be at peace with him- self and all mankind. The long days of winter are not, more- over,without their enjoyments for Blotch- er ; and keeping the stove warm during oflice hours, seems to him to constitute the whole duty of man. But business is business, and Messrs. Gripper & Holdem 12 CHARLIE CHATTERTON. I I are not entirely devoid of it. Occasionally a client will drop in, at which times Blotcher is always to be found with some lengthy deed, which he is supposed to be engrossing. Seldom is he ojfF his guard, in this respect, for he has a quick ear for all comers. Once, and only once, did his acuteness fail him ; for catching sight of a Brobdignagian bluebottle on the ledge of the office door, he rushed to deal him a mortal blow with the ruler, when the door being suddenly opened from be- hind, down fell the weapon with all the force of Blotcher's arm upon Mr. Grip- per's nose. Horror-struck with the result, Blotcher retreated slowly to his tripod, followed by Mr. Gripper, who, in great wrath, demanded an explanation of his strange conduct ; nor was he particu- larly well satisfied with poor Blotcher's mumbling explanation and apology^ "Now, Sir," said Gripper, after his wrath had somewhat subsided, '^ under- stand, once for all, that there must be no more tom-foolery of this kind in our CHARLIE CHATTERTON. 13 office. Has any one called during my absence ?" " Yes, Sir,— -Mr. Sheephead." " What did he call about ?" '^ He called about an account due him by a Mr. Bolter." " Aw, very good — did you ask him if he applied to Bolter himself for payment, in the first instance ?" " Yes, Sir, I did." " And what did Bolter say ?" " He told him to go to the devil." " And what did Sheephead say he did then ?" "Why, Sir, he said he came to you." O ! Blotcher, Blotcher, you should open your mouth as seldom as possible, except at meal times, for as sure as you do, you are certain to put your foot in it. And for this, and the bluebottle affair, Blotcher would assuredly have got the sack, but for the consideration Gripper had for his large wife and family, which reminds me that I have yet to introduce you to Mrs. B, iliif 14 CHARLIE CHATTERTON. iliil I nil III m. Well, she is a rum *un. On her stock- ing soles, I should say she measures five fcQt eight inches. Her head, which ap- pears like a dumpling stuck upon her shoulders, is ornamented, in front, by a nose of a decidedly celestial tendency, and most suspicious brilliancy of hue. Her tongue wags with a persistency sug- gestive of perpetual motion. Where she was born or to what country she be- longs, it would be difficult for any one to say ; for when Blotcher married her, she had been the widow of a sergeant in a cavalry regiment, and had been in near- ly every quarter of the globe. Charlie Chatterton, one of the boarders, who is a clerk in a dry goods store in St. Paul Street, says he doesn't believe that she was ever born at all, in the regular way, but that she must either have been got up by subscription, or got at a raffle, and I am almost disposed to agree with him. How Blotcher could have summoned courage to propose to her, remains to this day a [mystery to all his friends. But it CHARLIE CHATTERTON, 15 any one •ied her, ■geant in in near- Charlie , who is Bt. Paul : she was v^ay, but »t up by nd I am How courage lis day But it is generally believed that he had no hand in the matter at all. Be this as it may, however, sure enough it is, that besides wearing the continuations, Mrs. B. is a fruitful vine ; for in addition to four military encumbrances, a chest of drawers, and a wash tub, which she brought to Blotcher as dowry on her marriage day, she has added six pledges of various degrees of ugliness to the Blotcher family. Indeed the house never is without a baby ; for no sooner does Mrs. B. have one off her hands than she invariably produces another. And al- though I am no great authority in such matters, I have shrewd suspicions that another infliction of the same kind is shortly in store for Blotcher. Of the boarders generally there is not much to be said. With the exception of Charlie Chatterton, they are an ordinary, common-place lot enough, and when as- sembled, as usual, in the sitting-room of an evening, to enjoy a pipe, the conversa- tion is not unfrequently made up of a 1. I.ll I 16 CHARLIE CHATTERTON. ' llilll 4hM !' Mil relation by each, of the fabulous number of boarding houses he has tried, in the vain expectation of finding something like the comforts of a home, and the supposed quantities of superannuated cow and bad butter which he had con- sumed. But, however varied their ex- periences may be in regard to these im- portant points, it is wonderful to observe the unanimity of opinion which exists amongst them with regard to the board- ing house cat, and its powers of adopting the " appropriation clause." In one in- stance, it had taken to wearing rubbers ; in another, the sudden disappearance of hair oil, combs and brushes, could only be accounted for upon the supposition that it had taken to cultivate its whiskers. But the most remarkable instance of fe- line kleptomania is that related by Tom Simpkins, confidential clerk in the large soap and tallow works of Messrs. Hogg & Lard, Griflintown, where the cat actually smoked, and had taken a fancy to a favorite meerschaum pipe, to the color- CHARLIE CHATTERTON. 17 ig of which, Tom had for many months ;iven his whole mind ; and as all acknow- [ged that no loss they had sustained :ould be compared to this in cruelty and leartlessness, a univ^ersal vote of sym- >athy was passed for him. Having no special grievances to record from my own experience in this way, I ^as generally wont to slip up with Char- lie Chatterton to his room, where, re- :harging our pipes, we usually managed to lave a quiet chit-chat on things in ge- neral. One important decision we soon :ame to, however, and which I must not Fail to record, was that in future we )hould room together ; and this we could easily manage, as Charlie occupied a large Front room in which was a vacant bed. It was on the ibth of last month that ^e finally resolved on this. Well do I re- [collect the date, for Blotcher got awfully drunk that night, and there was no end of a row in the kitchen, in consequence. Slipping down stairs, I beheld Blotcher lying prostrate upon the floor, in an ex- 18 I i is ill I CHARLIE CHATTERTON. ceedingly maudlin state, and Mrs. B. standing over him flourishing a potatoel smasher above his head, and vowing that she would put *'an existence to his period." Blotcher, poor soul, lay helpless as a child ; but after her wrath had expended itself a little, he raised himself slowly upon his elbows, and said : "Look here, Shusan — I tell you what I is, Shusan ; you Ve scrashed my faish, and | pulled my hair, and kicked me, in my own housh, and if you do anyshing more, you'll — you'll roush the Bri'sh Lion !" " Shut up, you fuddled old idiot," roar- ed his spouse, " and pack off to bed, andj if ever I catch you going to the Axe and Anchor in Craig Street again, I'll break every bone in your body." Thus was Blotcher finally put to bed, and, with the exception of occasional groans, distinctly heard all over the house, peace and quiet q;ice more reigned in No. , Bleury Street. CHARLIE CHATTERTON. 19 CHAPTER II. From the first day on which I saw- Charlie Chatterton, I took quite a fancy- to him ; he appeared to be a light-hearted, ;asy-going sort of fellow, decidedly good looking, and altogether of a present- ible sort. But it was not until after we )egun to room together, that I learned luch of his history, or found out his va- •ious peculiarities and little foibles. Not ;hat he was by any means reserved — quite the reverse. One very cold evening, at the [beginning of this month, whilst we were sitting together over the stove, Charlie took his meerschaum from his mouth, and ifter expelling a prodigious volume of jmoke he said to me : — " Well, Smith." " Smythe," I said. — " S-m-y-t-h-e, Jmythe's my name, and I beg that you ^ill remember this in future, as I am very )articular on this point." " All right, old fellow ; I'll try not to take that mistake again. Well, Smy the. 1 M 20 CHARLIE CHATTERTON. I've been thinking that since we have managed to tumble together in this sort of I way, and are likely to be chums for the winter, at least, the sooner we get acquaint- ed with each other the better. For my own part, I have not much to relate. You already know that I come from London, Ont. Before I left home, the governor was everlastingly down upon me for my want of business habits, and nothing would satisfy him short of my going to Montreal, to get what he was pleased to term " a brushing up." So here I am, a full fledged boarder in the house of Blotch- er & Co. I easily obtained a situation, for my bosses do a large account with my father. But I have a most disgustingly small salary ; something like midshipman's half pay, you know, Smythe, — nothing a year, and find yourself. But, I dare say, it's as much as I'm worth. However, I manage to keep things straight at home with the old lady, who, every now and again, pops a ten dollar bill into her letters, so that one way and another I manage to CHARLIE CUATTERTON. 21 we have Is sort of I 1 for the icquaint- ' my own £. You London, governor for my nothing going to eased to I am, a 'Blotch- tuatlon, vith my jstingly ipman's )thlng a are say, xver, I t home >w and letters, lage to get along pretty comfortably. She's one of the right sort, Smythe, and I'm sure you'd like her, — ut least, I know /do. — • Just shove another piece of wood Into the stove— it's awful cold ; there, that's a good fellow. By-the-way, the governor gav^e me no end of introductory letters to some of the big wigs here, which he said I was to be sure to deliver. Hac they are," — taking out his pocket-book and counting them--*' one, two, three, four, five. —Now, as I hav^e been in Montreal five weeks already, I think it is time I shouldbe look- ing some of them up. Well, hcregoes for No. 1, to Donald Claymore, Esq., No. — , Beaver Hall Square. That's rather a fash- ionable sort of place, is'nt it, Smy the r" " Yes," said I, " it is, and I can tell you — you must be on your p's and q's if you mean to put in an appearance there." " Any nice girls, Smythe ?" " Of course there are," said I. " Why, man, Fanny Claymore is the belle of the city." ** You don't say so ?'* f 00 CHARLIE CIIATTEUTON. ill) " I do say so," said I, " and I mean it, too. And what's more, I can tell you, he'll be a lucky fellow who gets her ; for, besides her good looks, she is a most amia- ble creature, I'm told, and the old gentle- man, her father, is reported to be highly metallic. You must have seen her often in the carriage in St. James Street, though you did not know her." *' Well, well, I'll look them up some day soon," said Charlie ; ** and now, Smythe," said he, " it's your turn to unfold your talc, so out with it, and pass the tobacco." *' Well, it won't take long to do either," said I. ^* Smythe, Fitz Smythe's my full name, though I've dropped the Fitz since coming here. I belong to a very old family, the Smythes of Smythe Hall, Co. Wick- low, in Ireland. My father, of whom you may have heard, was for many years Colonel of the — th Hussars ; but is now retired on half pay, and as there is a large family of us, and my father's estates are very much embarrassed, I have been forced to shift for myself. For three years I .-.*»*. CHARLIE CIIATTERTON. 28 remained In Dublin, hoping, through his influence with the Lord Lieutenant, to procure some government appointment, or failing this, that something would turn up. In these expectations, however, I was disappointed, and both my patience and funds becoming exhausted, I resolved ••o pack up my all, which did not am')unt to much, and with what little assistance I could get from my father, try Canada for it. And although you see me here, in the humble capacity of a clerk in the 'con. store of Crowbar & Hatchett, there is one thing I'm determined never to forget, and that is, that I am a gentleman. No, Charlie, I shall never forget that. None of your saloon bars, gin slings, or other liquid abominations for me. And if you are a wise man you'll do the same, and I have no doubt that we shall manao^e to knock out as much fun and rational amusement together as will enable us to pass the winter very agreeably. But there's the supper bell — I do;i*t know how you feel, but Vm dreadfully peckish." 24 CHARLIE CHATTERTON. CHAPTER III. My conversation with Charlie respect- ing the Beaver- Hall people, appeared to have nfiade a deep impression upon his mind ; for I observed a marked difference in his deportment when together of an evening. He smoked furiously, though generally in silence, appeared moody and indisposed for conversation upon topics which formerly interested him ; and when I endeavored to lead off upon any topic, all that I could get out of him was an oc- casional ah — yes, or no. This was so dif- ferent from the previous state of things between us, that I resolved to have the matter cleared up in some way or other ; and having a shrewd idea of the tack upon which he had gone, I said to him in an off-hand kind of way : " What a beautiful place this Montreal is, especially in the neighborhoods of St. Catherine Street and Beaver Hall Square." I felt certain that the mention of this last named place would elicit something from CHARLIB CHATTERTON. 25 him; nor was I mistaken, for it seemed to I act like a charm upon Charlie. " Oh, yes," he said, ** it is a charming , place. I have walked all round it several times lately. By the-way, Smy the, did you [say Fanny Claymore was fair or dark ?" I replied that I had no recollection of (having said that she was either, but that if it would afford him any comfort to know, she was fair, exceedingly fair, in every sense of the term. " Bv Jove !" said he, " it must have been her then whom I saw at the window. I had my letter of introduction in my I pocket, but could not get up sufficient [courage to go in and deliver it. I must I do it, however; for I have had a letter from my father, in which he says that he has learned, in course of correspondence with Mr. Claymore, that I had not made my appearance either at his house or at I his store ; and that he was much surpris- ed at my not having done so." " You should call at once, by all means, j Charlie," said L "as from all that I have (J RHMa i'li.,,!,' 26 CHARLIE CHATTERTON. heard of the Claymores, they are very nice homely people, and T think you may fairly reckon upon meeting with a very cordial reception. I would give a thousand dollars, my boy, to be in your shoes, but no such luck is at all likely to come my way," Now I must tell you that amongst the many discoveries I had made of Charlie's peculiarities since our associating together, I had remarked in him a highly nervous I temperament, together with a strong ten- dency to spooneyism ; and that anything in the shape of a lady's bonnet, with aj pretty face in it, was sure to set his heart in a flutter. So that it was not without some misgivings that I looked forward to what might be the result to him of his in- troduction to the Claymores. The fol- lowing day he had fixed for the delivery of his introductory letter at Beaver Hall Square. " There is " (says Shakespeare) *' a tide in the affairs of men which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune." And who is there amongst us who cannot look back to some such turning point in his CHARLIE CHATTERTON. 27 [life. This was Charlie's, and how he availed himself of it the sequel will show. Mr. Claymore was, as might be sup- posed, absent in the city when Charlie called at the Square, the following day. The carriage was at the door, and Mrs. C. stood ready dressed in the hall, waiting for Fanny, who was to accompany her on a drive. This was awkward for Charlie, who had prepared a very neat and elegant speech for the occasion, not one syllable of which could he now remember. So, fum- :bling nervously in his pockets for his letter, which, to his utter dismay, he found he had left behind ; with a face of the deepest crimson, and a voice choking [with emotion, he walked or rather sidled tup to MrSw Claymore, and stammered out, p I beg your pardon, mum, but I'm the [young man from London." *' Oh ! you are, arc you ?" said she, 1" and pray, what brings you here at this )articular time ? Thomas," addressing the [footman, *' show this young man down to the kitchen. I shall return in about a [couple of hours, when I shall talk to him." 111. : i U3 W'- 28 CHARLIE CHATTERTON. " Step this way, my good fellow/' said Thomas, trying to look as important as possible. But Charlie's troubles were not at an end ; for although there was no lion in his path, sure enough the'-e was a favorite Scotch terrier waiting for his young mistress's appearance, to accom- pany her in the carriage, and down went! Charlie's foot upon his tail, whereupon the brute set up such a howling as brought! Miss Fanny down at the double quick. "Poor Sancho, poor fellow, and did that] stupid clodpole tread upon you, poor,- good doggie. Mamma," said Fanny, " isl that the young man you expected froml London, whom I saw go down stairs justj now ?" " Well, I suppose so, my dear," saidj Mrs. C ; "he says he's from London, sc I presume it is he ; but, as you know, cannot spare time to talk to him at pre-j sent. I have sent him down stairs ; he car wait until we return." "Yes, certainly," replied Fanny, "andl serves him right, for treading on Sancho. fi^ CHARLIE CHATTERTON. 29 )w," said! Drtant as I les were -e was no r^e was a J for hls| 3 accom- wn wentl hereupon 3 brought! quick, ddidthati , poor,- mny, " isi ;ted froml stairs justj ^ar," sai( )ndon, s( know, I| n at pre- •s ; he car ny, "andl n SanchoJ I always thought these English servants were particularly sharp, but that young man seems to be a regular clown. I fear he will never do to wait at table, mamma." Meanwhile, Mrs. Claymore, Fanny and Sancho, stopped into the carriage, and poor Charlie found himself sitting on a wooden chair by the side of the kitchen stove. " So you*re the cove wet's come to look after the place, are you ?" said Thomas. " What place ?" said Charlie, having somewhat recovered himself, and begin- ning to feel nettled. " Oh ! come now, none of yer gammon, young man ; you can't play off that game on me, my boy. Have a glass o' beer and look pleasant. Cookie, have you any cold mutton to give us ? We always takes our luncheon at this time, you know, and a jolly good lun, too. The Hemperor and Hempress is generally hout at this time hevery day, so don't be frightened. You can peg away as hard as you like for the next two hours, if you like. There's never no one comes at this time 30 CHARLIE CHATTERTON. o' day except the bobbie on his beat. But if you expect to get this situation you've made a mess of it, to start with, let me tell you, young man. Why, bless you, you might as well have knocked the young missus herself down, as have tramped on the tail of that vile whelp. I've got the sack myself for something of the same sort ; but it's a long story and I'll tell you all about it some other time. Take off your beer, man. Why, you're not eating a bit. And so you've just come from London, have you ? I'm blowed if I would have thought so from yer haccent. My last guv'nor was Sir Horace Hunter, Baronet. He was a good 'un, he was. We came out here with the Guards, and I left him through some absurd misunder- standing about a diamond ring, which, somehow or another, went a-missing, and couldn't be found. I might have remain- ed with this here family long enough, but for that cursed terrier. But I doubt you won't like this place, if you have been accustomed to a nobleman's family " (( (C CHARLIE CIIATTEllTON. 31 Lt. But you've let me )S you, ; young iped on Tot the e same tell you ake off t eating z from :d if I accent. iunter, le was. is, and iunder- which, ng, and emain- ^h, but bt you e been >> " I doubt either you or I have made some great mistake," said Charlie, look- ing mournfully into his glass, which stood before him untouched. '' Not a bit of it," said Thomas, '' it's Molson's best. But if you prefer 'arf an' 'arf you can 'ave it hall the same. Cookie, hand us out a bottle o* stout. Don't let us do the shabby thing by our friend." " No, no," said Charlie, getting very excited. '^ Why, man, I never was in service in my life, and don't want any situation, and if you will just step up- stairs with me to the dining room for a minute, I'll explain." " Explain the d — 1," roared Thomas ; " if you ain't been in service and don't want no situation, what in the dickens are you, and what brings you here ? You've come to the wrong shop, my chicken, if you think you'll trap me into any burglary business. No, no, my lad, * not for Joseph.' " It was in vain that Charlie endeavored to convince him that he had no burglarious 82 CHARLIE CHATTERTON. intentions, Thomas was inexorable, and commenced shouldering him rather rough- ly to the door. " I'll call and see Mr. Claymore my- self," said Charlie. " Yes, Til call at seven o'clock this very evening, and inform him of the manner in which you have used me." '" Did you say that seven o'clock was the hour," said Thomas, very sarcasti- cally, " at which we were again to be favored with your company, young man ?" " Yes, I said seven o'clock ; are you deaf, sir ?" said Charlie, " All right," replied Thomas ; "' then I'll take good care to have all the silver plate locked up at that time." As Thomas continued standing at the door, looking savagely after him, Charlie, ex- pecting every moment that he would call out " police," took to his heels, and never stopped until he found himself once more safe within the four walls of Blotcher's house. b CHARLIE CHATTERTON. 33 CHAPTER IV. When Charlie appeared at the supper table that evening, I noticed that he looked unusually cross and out of sorts, and when I asked him how he had found all his friends at Beaver Hall Square, and particularly how he liked Fanny, he look- ed absolutely savage. " Don't talk to me, Smythe," he finally said. " I feel very unwell to night, and intend going early to bed," which I ad- vised him to do at once, in the belief that a good night's rest was all he required to set him to rights. There was no social pipe or chat that night, and it was the first really unpleasant evening I spent with him since I had formed his acquain- tance. What on earth could be the matter with him, I was utterly unable to imagine. I thought of all sorts of possible and impossible causes for his al- tered mood. Could he have been such an idiot as to have rushed into a declaration of love to Fanny, upon the strength of his 'I 34 CHARLIE CHATTERTON. introductory letter, and met with such a reception as any sane man might have ex- pected ? Nothing short of some such mad proceeding on his part seemed ade- quate to account for his thoroughly woe- begone and dejected looks. It was not, however, until several days after, that I learned all the particulars of his unfortu- nate escapade, and I am free to confess that the source from which I derived my in- formation was none other than our servant Betsy, who, having at one time been a fellow servant with the cook at Beaver Hall Square, had had the whole affair communicated to her, upon the express understanding that she wasn't " to say nothing to nobody about it." I could scarcely refrain from laughing while Betsy was telling me of it ; but when she fur- ther informed me that the cook had rated Thomas soundly for what she considered his harsh treatment of Charlie, on account of her being herself in want of a young man, and having made up her mind that Charlie would suit her to a T, I could no longer CHARLIE CIIATTERTON. 35 such a lave ex- le such 2d ade- y woe- ^as not, sr, that infortu- fess that my in- servant been a Beaver !e affair express * to say I could le Betsy he fur- id rated isidered account iig man, Charhe longer control myself, and tears of laughter rolled over my cheeks. P>om the sublime to the ridiculous there is but a step, and this step Charlie had taken with a vengeance. How he was to escape from the very awkward position in which he had placed himself, was to me by no means clear. Something, however, must be done. So I set my brains to work forthwith to find out what that something was to be, and how it was to be gone about without wounding poor Charlie's already lacera- ted feelings. With the knowledge I pos- sessed of his highly nervous and excit- able temperament, and of the difficulty of ministering to a mind diseased, I determined, after due reflection, to go gently about the matter. So, having first taken from Betsy a pledge of so- lemn silence to every one else on the subject, I proceeded up stairs to our room, where I found my poor fellow - boarder lying upon his face across his bed. He had scarcely uttered a word to me from that unfortunate day, and iW 36 CHAKLTE CHATTERTON. even now took no notice of my en- trance. " Charlie, Charlie," said I, " get up, man — what's the good of lying there. Here's a letter for you." " Who is it from?" said he. " Well," I said, " since you have asked me such a ridiculous question, all that I can say is that it appears to be from some acquaintance of yours in town, though I would not be quite sure of that either, as the postmark is very illegible." *^ Oh, from some one in town you think, is it ?" he said, beginning to look up. " Who can it be from ? Let me have a look at it, Symthe ;" and a minute more found him deeply engrossed in what appcp.red to be a very business-like letter, the contents of which, as he proceeded with it, I could almost read in his face. " Come, don't keep all the fun to your- self," said I, " tell us all about it. It con- tains no bad news, at all events, if I may judge from your looks.'* So he at once proceeded to read it to me. CIIAULIB CIIATTERTON. 37 my en- get up, there. e asked 11 that I m some lough I either, vn you to look Let me minute in what e letter, Dcceded ace. o your- It con- I may It once No. — , St. Francois Xavier Street, December^ 1868. "My Dear Sir, Having ascertained from Mrs. Clay- more that a person had called at my house, stating that he had come from London ; and suspecting from the correspondence I have lately had with your father, who furnished me with your address, that this person may have been none other than yourself, I beg you will do me the favor to call upon me, at the above address, when I will explain to you the nature of the circumstances which led to your meet- ing with such a reception as I under- stand you then met with. I am. Yours very truly, Duncan Claymore." No great persuasion was necessary to induce Charlie at once to comply with this request. And, truth to tell, I was as anxious to get the matter set at rest as 'A ■ ■ V-, ;'^ii "« f . 88 CHARLIE CHATTERTON. himself; for of late his society had been far from agreeable. He called according- ly on Mr. Claymore, who received him most cordially at his place of business, and| explained to him how that, having dis- charged his present footman, he had re- 1 quested an applicant for the situation who had recently arrived in the city from London, England, to see Mrs. Claymore, in whose hands he generally left all such domestic matters — and that they all re- gretted exceedingly the unfortunate mis- take which had taken place. Mr. Clay- more wound up by inviting Charlie to dinner on the following Friday, at six o'clock ; and so he trotted home as happy as a sand boy. That dinner party was destined to be a memorable event in Charlie's life. Friday came, and so far Charlie was equal to the occasion ; for a good sized parcel had arrived for him which the label outside showed beyond a doubt to be for Charles Chatterton;^ Esq., from the fashionable clothing establishment of Dressem & Snip, ad been :ording- ed him ess, and ng dis- had re- on who y from lymore, .11 such all re- Lte mis- . Clay- arlie to at six 1 happy to be a Friday jual to eel had outside harles ionable k Snip, CHARLIE CHATTERTON. 39 in Notre Dame Street, and which, on being opened by him on his return from busi- ness, proved to contain a very handsome dress suit, a satin necktie, and a pair of lavender kids. " Why, Charlie, you look quite kill- ing," said I to him, when he had finish- ed dressing ; " positively you are quite irresistible, and if you play your cards well, I shall expect to see a case of in- fanny-ti-cldQ in the papers to-morrow ! Go in and win, my boy ; * faint heart never won fair lady, you know.' " So Charlie jumped into the cab which was waiting for him, and was duly deposited at Mr. Claymore's door. " What i? V ^.?5 sir ?" said Thomas, look- ing very hard at Charlie. " Mr. Chatterton," replied Charlie, inasomtwhat low tone of voice. " Mr. Chatterbox," roared the flunky, as he opened the doot* x*\d ushered Charlie into the dr-iwiiig room, amidst an ill suppressed c'trer fioiii the assem- bled guests. .'?: '(■:■ ■ -i mr 40 CHARLIE CHATTERTON. :| 1 IIH".':. Thomas, as has been already stated, had received notice to leave,and this was not the only mistake of the kind he made during the evening, whether intentional or not, I cannot say. But certain it is that a worthy couple, a gentleman and his wife, the latter a stout elderly lady, who, in jr'^oceeding up stairs, had her dress trodd" c b}' her hus- band, forcing from her the mgry exclama- tion — " Lor*, man, Davie, get ou my dress," were, from this circumstance, an- nounced by Thomas as " Lord and L?.dy Davie." These, and the following parti- culars, I obtained from Charlie upon his return, on the distinct understai; V ip that I was not to chaff him about :l. will not, however, recount all hii. itmI- ventures on that occasion. Suffi e it to shv that he returned home that evening a regu- lar dried up dry-goods man — in short, a complete Fanny -tic. We sat up that night talking until it was very late, or, I should say, early ; for it was neaH^ ^r." o'clock ere we retired to bed, and in course of our conversation, I learned that Charlie Uig, ai him. Jl comn" I he be I ing ei I eyes, H broug by a] was u he ha CHARLIE CHATTERTON. 41 ed, had not the during r not, I worthy le latter ling up ler hus- cclama- OiT my L'.e, an- d L?,dy I parti- )on his :ar rig t to sa V i@ a regu- hort, a p that t, or, I ^ •5^r wi-' course [Charlie had made most praiseworthy attempts to render hinj self agreeable to the family. On dinner being announced, Charlie could scarcely believe his ears when Mr. Clay- more stepped up to him with the request that he would take Fanny down stairs.™ Besides his devotions to Fanny during the evening, he was also most lavish in his attentions to Sancho, on the principle of ** love me, love my dog." But Sancho really was a most loveable brute, and the perfect picture of a Sky terrier, with a coat like a door mat. By dint of coaxing, Charlie managed to get him upon his knee, for Sancho seemed to remember their last meet- Itig, and to entertain a wholesome dread of him. Whilst talking to Fanny, Charlie commenced patting Sancho upon what he believed to be his head, and comment- ing eulogistically upon the beauty of his eyes, &c., and it was not until he was brought up in the midst of his tete-a-tete by a loud laugh from Fanny, which she was unable to suppress, that he perceived he had made a mistake, and had been la- i"tl w. 42 CHARLIE CHATTERTON. vishing his enconiums upon the creature's tail — a tail of which he now began to think he was never to hear the end ; but Fan- ny's ready wit came to his rescue, and soon put him again at his ease. lit:. m CHAPTER V. Matters continued to move on in the| ordinary way at Blotcher's, nothing oc- curring amongst us in any way worthy of I notice, with the exception of Blotcher's coming home occasionally in an obfusti. cated state, and the reproduction of the| usual kitchen pantomime. On one occa- sion, however, he fell on the ice and broke I his leg, which lamed him for life. As for Charlie, he became each day more and more particular in matters relating to his personal appearance. The growth of his moustache, and the parting of Us back hair were causes of particular solicitude to him. He had also taken to writing a CHARLIE CHATTERTON. 43 le occa- amorous ditties, several of which he sub- mit ted to me for my opinion, and all of which I advised him to put into the fire as speedily as possible. One day, after dinner, he said to me, " I say, Smythe, what's the correct thing for a fellow \o say when he intends to pop the question ?" " Well," said I, "Charlie, this is really too much of a good thing. 5fou don't mean to tell me you have already arrived at this stage of the proceedings ?" " No, no," he said, " I merely want to know, in case of accidents. You know a fellow never knows what may happen ; so it is always as well to be prepared." " I fear, then, you must take your pre- paratory lesson from some one else/' said I, " for I have resolved never again to inter- fere in such matters. You remember. Duclois, the young French Canadian, to whom I introduced you some time ago. Well, he came once to me with the same request as you now make, telling me that he was paying his addresses to a very pretty young English girl ; but, being M 1^ 1 ii ' Ikii 44 CHARLIE CHATTERTON. very deficient in his knowledge of our lan- guage, he was quite at a loss what to say to her. Without thinking much about it, and as much to get rid of the subject as anything else, I said to him : " Oh, just say to her, that if you were her guardian angel, you would watch over her always." The poor fellow seemed delighted. " Oh!" said he, "that ees gode, 'tees ver' mooch gode. — I directly go." So off he went instanter ; and what do you think I after- wards learned he said to her ? I'm sure you would never guess. Getting down upon his knees before his lady love, he ex- claimed : " Oh ! Madame, eef I was your angel in de gardain, I would wash you al- ways ovare." No, no, Charlie, I will run no such risk with you. But let me merely say, that many who cannot summon the courage to face upyviva voce^ on such occa- sions, do so by letter, either in prose, or in verse ; though generally in the former." " Oh ! aw," said Charlie, " Tm no great hand at letter writing, but I can do some- thing in the poetical way, though you CHARLIE CHATTERTON. 45 don't seem to think so, but I will prove it to you before you are a day older." And sure enough he kept his word, in a way, for about two o'clock the follow- ing morning, I was awakened from a profound sleep by his shouting in the room, " Oh ! I've got it, I've got it." '^ Well, then, I hope you'll keep it," said I, " for the beggar has been trou- bling me all night. " " No, no," said he, " that's not what I mean. I've got some ideas in my head." " I'm exceedingly glad to hear it," J replied, "for I was not aware of the fact before." " Have you got a mucifer latch, Smythe ? " " If it is a lucifer match you want, you had better say so at once ; you will find some in my coat pocket ;" and having thrown on his overcoat, he lit the lamp and proceeded to secure his grand ideas on paper. These he showed me in the morning, in the form of a couple of '■'.-n 46 CHARLIE CHATTERTON. iWi I; >i ( verses which appeared to be the produc- tion of a lunatic rather than of a sane person. They ran as follows : — *' I dreamt of thee, dear Fanny, last night. As tlie lady whom I adore. And these few lines to thee to indite, I jumped out of bed on the flov r. Oh! Fanny dear, oh ! Fanny dear, I vow I'll love thee ever. And for thy sake, I greatly fear I've lost my heart and liver." Through my strict supervision and carefulness to prevent the dispatch of thesCj and indeed all such like produc- tions, and with as few contretemps as might be expected in the case of a ner- vous man like Charlie, matters continued to progress favorably at Beaver Hall Square. Charlie was now in his twenty- first year, and the sly dog had never told me that on attaining his majority he was to come into possession of a legacy o^ forty thousand dollars left him by an uncle who had been an indigo planter in India. But old Claymore knew this CHARLIE CHATTERTON. 47 well, so that when Charlie actually did " pop the question" to Fanny, and was referred by her to papa, he found the course clear, with nothing to do but go in and win. At the marriage I acted as groomsman. Charlie and his beautiful bride went on a tour to Niagara Falls and the States ; and on their return the young couple took up their residence at the east end of St. Catherine Street, and many a time do I look in upon them of an even- ing, when Charlie and I sometimes get together in his sanctum to do a weed. Then do we fight our battles o'er again, and have many a hearty laugh over our sayings and doings in No. — Bleury Street. I have now only to add, that shortly after the time when Blotcher slipped on the ice, he slept with his fathers, and Mrs. B appointed herself regent until Blotcher the second should reign in his stead. I.EF' had of p( static curio a fe\^ hadr up ti- the V the si and r senge forme did Vxi "Ho utterl^ crowd alyzec itft anb ©bertiikcn. CHAPTER I —LEFT. I -EFT ! I was a minute too late. The cars had just moved ofT, and I met the crowds of people, who had collected round the station on business, or from motives of curiosity, returning, just as I was within a few yards off it. A gentleman whom I had met at the hotel at which I had put up the previous evening, on my arrival at the village towards the outskirts of which the station was situated, just then passed, and recognizing me as an intending pas- senger of that morning's train, coolly in- formed me that the cars had started. I did not fully realize the fact till then. — " How ? What ? Why ?" I exclaimed, utterly bewildered at the intelligence. The crowd went its way ; I stood like one par- alyzed, and was soon left alone with a i 50 LEFT AND OVERTAKEN. m group of boys on the sidewalk, who seemed to contemplate me with curious interest. This was my first personal contact with the actualities of travel — my first experi- ence of what dependence on the stern, inexorable genius of steam, really means. That "time and tide await no man," I had long ago been taught as a matter of fact. That time and steam await no man, I had just proved as a matter of perience. My personal insignificahcw and helpless- ness were forcibly brought home to me — nevertheless, I would not patiently admit the fact. A blind feeling of defiance and resistance sprang up within me. I would rise superior to this rebufi". I would yet find means to outmatch this unrelenting power that in thus proudly pursuing " the even tenor of its way," in sublime indiffer- ence to my wishes, seemed to mock and belittle me. Full of this idea, I asked one of the boys whether he knew of any short cut by means of which, with a fast horse, I LEFT AND OVERTAKEN. 51 , who :urious ct with sxperi- stern, means. " I had 3f fact. , I had ice. dpless- > me — admit ce and would lid yet lenting g " the idiffer- ck and of the ort cut orse, I might intercept the train at the next sta- tion. He merely answered by favoring me with a blank, astonished stare ; and I dare say, was only prevented from laugh- ing outright at my folly by sympathy for my misfortune. I became aware that I was rendering myself an object of remark, if not of ridi • cule, and so resolved, without more ado, to accept my fate with us good a grace as possible under the circumstances. The hotel at which I had put up was but a few rods distant. Thither, then, I retraced my steps — slowly, under the clog of dis- appointment, measuring back the distance I had a few moments before so lightly traversed on the wings of expectation. Some, on reading this, might be disposed to attribute my mishap to my own lack of punctuality. Against such a charge — should any one be uncharitable enough to make it, I must for my own credit, enter an unqualified protest. The train, I knew, was to start at six in the m.orning ; and the understanding was that breakfast was to IP n Hi ?vf 52 LEFT AND OVERTAKEN. be served up at a sufficiently early hour to allow intending passengers ample time to do full justice to this meal, ere the hour appointed for the starting of the train should arrive. I was up betimes, and had everything in readiness to leave at a moment's notice, long ere breakfast was announced. In fact, I hesitated about sitting down to table at all, until assured that I should have plenty of time ; and indeed the clock of the dining-room yet showed about fifteen minutes to six, when, having concluded the meal, I sallied forth for the station. In truth, my trust in this time-piece was the immediate cause of my missing the train. I had been told that the time of the hotel corresponded with that of the sta- tion house ; and, in point of fact, I jelieve this had always been the case until this particular morning, when in some unac- countable way the time of the former had fallen about a quarter of an hour behind that of the latter. As evidence that the untoward event LEFT AND OVERTAKEN. 53 our to me to ; hour train id had at a ,st was about ssured ; ; and m yet when, I forth ce was ng the of the le sta- jelieve :il this unac- er had )ehind event did not happen through any special want of punctuality in me, I may instance the fact that there were four or five others left in the same predicament as myself. One of these was a lady who, seemingly, took the matter more to heart than any of the others, loudly enveighing against the hotel and all connected with it, declaring that " she had been imposed upon — that it was atrick practised upon the unsuspect- ing passengers, all for the good of the House — for as it was Saturday, and no train put off again till Monday, they would be obliged to remain there two days longer than they had calculated upon ; and it was not likely they should be boarded for nothing." In fact, to such a length did this redoubtable virago go, that the accom- modating landlord wns fain to silence her wholesale denunciations and recrimina- tions by engaging a team, to send her at his own expense to her destination, not many miles distant. I and the others, however, who could not in the circumstances be accommoda- 54 LEFT AND OVERTAKEN. w. n If , fliS'ftl :.' "m ted in the same way, had no alternative but to remain where we were until Mon- day, — a dreary enough prospect for me, however my companions in misfortune might regard it. They, indeed, appeared to take the matter lightly enough, and seemed only concerned as to the best manner in which to amuse themselves during their forced stay Some, who had friends in the vil- lage, got these persuaded to accompany them in hunting and fishing excursions, while others amused themselves in exam- ining any objects of interest which the locality might afford. I, who felt in no mood to join either party, betook myself to the sitting-room of the hotel. My reflections, I must confess, were not of the most cheerful nature. I had every reason, I fancied, to be dissatisfied with the aspect of affairs. Once the thought occurred to me of re- turning home. But a sudden recoUec-l tion of the motives which had led me to undertake the journey, caused me to dis-l LEFT AND OVERTAKEN. 55 miss this idea almost as soon as formed. To proceed, on ;:he other hand, might prove equally fruitless. The mission on which I was bound required my presence on the scene of action at a certain speci- fied time, to ensure its success, and this time, I could not now by any possibility make. A feeling of despondency possessed me, which I strove in vain to dissipate. Throwing myself on a sofa, I tried to divert my thoughts by reading a book, which, attracted by^its title, I had selected from a number of volumes lying on a table in the room. But my thoughts, notwithstanding every effort, would run only in one direction. The eye, indeed, took in the words of the page ; but my mind failed utterly to grasp their mean- ing. I flung the book aside in despair, and began pacing the apartment up and down, in no very enviable frame of mind. One painful subject still haunted me, still weighed on my spirits with a paralyz- ing incubus, which I vainly endeavored l| h'l. 66 LEFT AND OVERTAKEN. ■^MM if ■f T.y ''ill I' i 'tf. to shake off. Involuntarily my hand sought the breast pocket of my coat, and thence withdrew a carefully secured pocket book. Mechanically, I loosened the fastenings, opened it, and thence ex- tracted a neatly folded slip of written paper, which I nervously clutched, and eagerly perused, as if from this simple act some inspiration or comfort were to be derived. Just then, the landlady appeared with broom and duster in hand, in the perfor- mance of her morning visit to the apart- ment. I hastily folded the note,and replaced it in my portfolio, which I returned to its former place in my pocket. The landlady, guessing no doubt by my distracted and troubled manner that I was one of those left behind by the cars, asked me if such were not the case. Having answered her in the affirma- tive, she forthwith began to express her surprise at the mistake which had led to my detention. It was the first time in her recollection, she said, that anything of the kind had occurred. LEFT AND OVERTAKEN. 57 !!g ii >i hand Xy and "cured Dsened ubt by nanner ind by not the flirma- s her led to ime in I replied " that such things would oc- casionally happen in the best regulated establishments ; notwithstanding the blun- der in the present instance proved very- inconvenient to me." " Still, it may be for the best," she said ; " very often things which at the time, we thought to be altogether to our disadvantage, have in the end turned out to be the best things that could have hap- pened us." Now, something like this, I had all along been trying to say to myself, but had hitherto been unable to receive with that assurance necessary to produce any effect. I was not a little surprised at finding my own thoughts echoed and confirmed, in this manner, from such a quarter. But curious as it may seem, the mere utterance of these sentiments by this woman, in her own simple, matter-of-fact way, had more effect in soothing my mind than the repetition of them to myself a score of times could have had. The consolatory sayings and wise apothemgs, treasured E in i\ v h y u I 58 LEFT AND OVERTAKEN. Up by memory which, in moments of dis- tress, we vainly strive to appropriate for our comfort, come with all the force of inspiration when delivered by another, who, standing on the superior ground of calm philosophy, undisturbed by the tumult of passion in which we are in- volved, speaks with a composure and confidence which go far to produce con- viction. Dri\^n by the pitiless storms of night over unknown wastes, the light, which held in our own hand would fail to point our way through the blinding and bewildering darkness — when seen gleam- ing from some hospitable cottage, hap- pily unconscious of all the wild war of elements to which we are exposed, guides us at length, safely and surely, to shelter and repose. Struck at hearing such words from one occupying the station of my interlocutor, I regarded her with more attention than I had vouchsafed her on her first entrance. She seemed a woman of about twenty-five years of age, tall, good-looking, with an i if dis- Lte for -ce of other, ind of f the .re in- e and e con- rmsof light, fail to g and learn - ;, hap- war of guides shelter t)m one ocutor, than I trance, ity-five with an LEFT AND OVERTAKEN. 59 intelligent, pleasing expression of coun- tenance. She went about the room easily and gracefully, dusting and sweep- ing, without, however, once intermitting her conversation with me. " My father," she continued, *' had always a habit when anything went against him of saying that everything was for the best. I mind once, while at a fair, (we lived in the north of Irqjand) he lost a ten pound note. When he came home, we were all lamenting his loss. ' But,' says he, ' O, it's nothing, it's all for the best ; who knows what harm that ten pound note would have done me, if I had not lost it — or what good it may do me, now that I've lost it?' Well, sure enough, it turned out as he said. Some days after- wards the money was advertised as found, and when my father went to claim it, he discovered that the person who had found it was a great gentleman ; and as my father was a mason, and this gentle- man had some large buildings to put up, the end of it was that my father got m& « ■-,!?| 60 LEFT AND OVERTAKEN. I i'-i€ the contract, and a good job he made of it. It gave us a start that kept us well off afterwards, as long as he lived. Well, that was my father's way of looking at things, and I think it is the best way too." " Yes," I remarked, " no doubt it is, if one could always do so." " Whafs to hinder ?" she said; "when one has done his best and finds matters still go against him, he may be sure that it*s better for him so, and that, if he got on just as he wished, it might be only for his hurt." " That is very often the case," I re- marked, not unwilling to prolong the conversation in this direction. " Now, it's no fault of yours that you were left this morning. You were up early enough, and was ready to start long before the time, and you might have had your breakfast through, too, and been off in time even then, if you hadn't been de- ceived by the clock, or if even you had heard the whistle^ They must have blown it lower than usual, or some of us LEFT AND OVERTAKEN. 61 would have heard it, we are so near the station. But no one in the house heard it, a thing I don't mind of happening before, and we've been here ever since the rail- road commenced running." *^ Well, it's one comfort," I said, " that my own negligence wasn't the cause of my being left, but after all it doesn't seem to help the matter much." " No one knows what's to happen,'* she rejoined ; " there is something strange in it ; I always used to hear the whistle till this morning. I believe it was blown, though, at the usual time, though we didn't hear it. And that clock's never been known to play the same trick before. I asked all the girls about it, and they say none of them touched it, and they don't know of any one else's touching it.'* " It's rather singular," 1 observed. '^ Now, if this was a place where much drinking was carried on, it mightn't seem so strange. But as it is, there's little danger that any drunk person would be meddling with it. May be, though, it n i'. % ^ 12!^ Bn I", I \v-. K 62 LEFT AND OVERTAKEN. I' kiF It * II' 1 I** .ill m Stopped last night. Mr. winds it up every night himself, and it might have run down before he wound it up last night, and perhaps if he was in a hurry or anything like that, he mightn't have been particular to set it ahead to the right time." " That might have been," I acquiesced. " Well, it's hard to say what luck is in it. May be something is to go wrong with the cars ; they may run off the track, or get blown up, and then if you had got on, you might get hurt or killed. Or something may turn up by your being kept here ; you may find out something to your advantage you aren't aware of, or see some one who has something of im- portance to tell you that you might never have heard if you had gone away as you intended. I have known such things to happen, and the like may happen to you, who knows ?" " Who knows indeed .?" I mused, as my voluble sympathizer, her dusting and ar- ranging done to her entire satisfaction, now ii'l'" LEFT AND OVERTAKEN. 63 left the room. Something to happen, if it be something to help me out of my trouble, would indeed be welcome. But what can I hope for ? what even wish for ? What has life itself of fair or desirable to present, now that all those hopes which erewhile formed its most inviting charm are fled forever. Such reflections as these, however, were not calculated to improve my situa- tion, or dissipate my melancholy. I crossed over to one of the windows of the apartment, looking out upon the street, which formed the principal thor- oughfare of the village. It was the month of August. The day, which was now somewhat advanced, was warm and sunny, with a clear, cloud- less sky, of the most ethereal blue. A mild, refreshing breeze, springing from the south-west, came fluttering in among the crimson curtains of the open window, imparting a soothing sense of coolness to my fevered brow and flushed face, as with the apathetic langour of dejection I i I- I'l ,i !■ 1? K • ■»?- I7J 64 LEFT AND OVERTAKEN. gazed out on the varied prospect spread out before me. The room in which I stood was on the second floor of the house, so that from my comparatively elevated position, I had a view of the country for some distance round. It was, indeed, a view which, in a more congenial frame of mind, would have delighted me with its romantic beau- ty — and as it was, I could not help sur- veying its many features of loveliness without a feeling of. subdued and quiet pleasure. Beyond the village itself, which lay di- rectly before me, with its trim gardens, cottages and places of business, a charming prospect of green pastures, waving fields of grain, with here and there a rich clump of dense shady wood or;,necl up to view. Some of the fall \ .c fields ^ ?re ripe ; and their rich golden hue contrasted plea- singly with the sober green of others in a less advanced stage. Men were at work, cutting down such grain as demanded the labors of the reaper. For the most part nq lage LEFT AND OVERTAKEN. 65 the old-fashioned hook and cradle were used ; but in some cases these were super- seded by the more expeditious and la- bor-saving reaping machine. The entire scene of rural loveliness was further enlivened by the broad mean- derings of the rapid river, which, having done duty in setting the various mills and factories erected along its course in motion, now bounded free from all control, shim- mering in the flashing sunlight through fruitful fields of grain, through pastures stocked with flocks and herds, and past sombre, solemn woods which, darkly shading its bosom, suggested a time not far off, when its whole course had been overshadowed and graced by just such rugged, sylvan scenes. My attention was suddenly withdrawn from the contemplation of this pleasing landscape, by observing an elegant car- riage containing two persons, a lady and a gentleman, and drawn by a spirited team of horses, advance rapidly and draw up before the hotel, right under the window 1; .i'J I 66 LEFT AND OVERTAKEN. i' Is, h k V h where I was standing. There was some- thing familiar in the appearance of the vehicle which excited my curiosity, ere yet I had an opportunity to scan crit'cally the features of either of its occupants. I watched the pair narrowly, as, having alighted and given their horses in charge to the ostler, they now turned to enter the hotel. No sooner, however, had J observed them nearly than I drew back with a sudden thrill of deepest emotion, and with difficulty suppressed an exclama- tion of surprise ; for I had recognized them. But that the reader may be able in some degree to understand the feelings which agitated me so powerfully, I must go back and acquaint him with the leading facts of my past history, in so far at least as they may serve to throw light on my situation. CHAPTER II— A RETROSPECT. My name is Frederick Stockton. It is necessary that I should note this fact, LEFT AND OVERTAKEN. GT I , some- )f the ;re yet ly the ts. I laving :harge enter had J back lotion, clama- them. ti some v^hich o back r facts least as )n my It is s fact, trivial as it may seem ; for it is of vital importance to my narrative, as the sequel will show. I was then twenty-one years of age. My father was a farmer,and my boy- hood had been spent at home on the farm ; but early manifesting a predilection for mechanical pursuits, I was at the age of fourteen apprenticed to the joining and cabinet-making business. Having com- pleted my apprenticeship, I engaged in an extensive furniture factory in the thriving little village of Rosedale, situated at the distance of ten or twelve miles from my father's residence. Here, by industry, skill and attention to business, I won the confidence and re- gard of my employer to such a degree as in a short time to be entrusted with the charge of the whole establishment. And so pleased was my employer with my management of his affairs, that latterly, in order, as he said, to secure my services permanently, he had proposed to take me as a partner in the business, on what appeared both to myself and friends very advantageous terms. Ml Kill I, '■' '■;l 68 LEFT AND OVERTAKEN. If h I V.i But one thing prevented me from at once accepting this proposal. A friend- ship, which in my boyish days I had formed with a young and amiable girl in the neighborhood, had, as I grew up into manhood, been developed into a deeper and more tender feeling. To be plain, I was in love, and this feeling had gained such an ascendancy over me as to make every other consideration secondary to it- self, and to cause every undertaking to be looked upon with favor or otherwise, just as it might or might not receive the sanction of this controlling power. Matilda Meadows was now about twenty years of age, beautiful, accom- plished, the belle of her native village. Her father. Governor Meadows, as he was sometimes called, was extensively en- gaged in commercial pursuits, and had succeeded in amassing a large fortune. But though accounted one of the wealthi- est men of the place, he still retained that simplicity of life and bluff heartiness of manner which, in his younger days and LEFT AND OVERTAKEN. 69 V in an humbler state, rendered him the favorite of all, and contributed not a little to his rapid advancement and suc- cess. He never betrayed any of that silly vanity and ostentatious pride v^hich too often mark the conduct of those who, by any means, rise from a low condition in life to the attainment of wealth and con- sequence. Being thus. In the fullest sense of the term, a self-made man, he knew at the same time how to value riches, and to ap- preciate those qualities of character which in themselves are excellent, indepen- dently of the position of their possessor. Hence it was that, whenever a poor but worthy lad, struggling to improve his condition and ambitious to rise, came under his notice, he not only cheered him on, but when an opportunity for so doing presented itself, was always ready to lend him a helping hand. This disposition in Mr. Meadows, it was, which led me to hope that I might, even with his approval, presume to the • ,'' i**!! M 70 LEFT AND OVERTAKEN. hand of his lovely daughter, notwith- standing the wide difTerence in our for- tunes. I knew that he judged of a man's standing, not so much by what he had already achieved as by his will and capa- city to achieve. And in truth I had every reason to believe that my attentions to Miss Mea- dows, which were so pointed that there could be, I fancied, no mistaking of their object, were not at all displeasing either to herself or her father. # In fact, I considered myself a favorite with all the Meadows family, which con- sisted besides my adorable Matilda and her father, of an elder brother, at the tlm.e of which I write, a student at the Toronto University, two younger boys, and a girl, the baby and pet of the house- hold, though then upwards of six years old. Their mother had died in the in- fancy of this child, but her place was well supplied, at first by a maiden aunt, and latterly by Matilda herself, whose kind, motherly manner towards her brothers I LEFT AND OVERTAKEN. 71 and little sister, formed in my eyes not the least pleasing of her many attrac- tions. As the village of Arnville, in v/hich they lived, was but four miles distant from Rosedale, I had frequent opportu- nities of enjoying the society of this agreeable family, all of whose members were as dear to me as if T was indeed one of their number. I kept up a regular correspondence with young Meadows during his absence at college. I was cordially invited to spend whatever leisure time I could spare from business at the Meadows' mansion, and whenever I availed myself of this invita- tion, was invariably kindly received by the whole family. Thus encouraged as I thought in my pretensions, I did not seek to check the growing attachment which I felt spring- ing up in my mind for Miss Meadows. Indeed to do so would have proved a fruitless task. I felt that my affection for her was of too deep a nature ever to s- M ft; 72 LEFT AND OVERTAKEN. be eradicated. My feeling towards her was of a pure, devoted, wholly unselfish character, such as alone can form the basis of a real and lasting regard. Her image was ever present to my thoughts — her idea entered into all my schemes, and twined itself inseparably with ail the in- tricacies of my being ; life itself apart from her seemed to offer nothing desirable — and no object which had not some refer- ence more or less direct to her, could long engross my attention or claim my regard. But why need I enlarge? To him who, like me, has been in love with a pure- minded girl, possessed, as he supposed, of every excellence of person and of mind, the state of my feelings will be sufficiently intelligible — to him who has not, anything I might say would appear as so much unmeaning verbiage. As for Miss Meadows herself, I had, as I have said, every reason to suppose that in her secret heart she was not only conscious of my affection for her, but was also not indisposed to regard it with LEFT AND OVERTAKEN. 73 her Ifish basis nage — iiv.l and .e in- from ble— refer - [long jgard. him pure- losed, id of ill be lo has [ppear had, Ippose only it was with favor. She had many admirers who were assiduous in paying court to her, but I flattered myself that I was the favored one. Indeed, were it not for the prefer- ence which, in many ways, she seemed to manifest for me, I might never have pre- sumed so far as even in thought to aspire to her hand — so great a barrier did I con- sider the difference in our respective sta- tions to be. Latterly, however, I fancied I had dis- covered a change in Matilda's manner. She appeared to feel embarrassed in my company, and seemed rather to shun than to court my society. Simultaneous with these symptoms of change in her feelings towards myself, I observed that she now appeared to delight more in tke company of others. A young lawyer, a pert, empty-headed fop of a fellow, had recently come to re- side in Arnville. With an assumption of superiority characteristic of his class, he at once singled out Miss Meadows as the object of his special attention — no doubt, F 1 1 ■■; f.' Hi' 74 LEFT AND OVERTAKEIV, If t'i I'm, P-.n 4(1 on account of her reputation as the ac- knowledged belle and wealthiest heiress of the place. It would ill comport, no doubt, with his idea of his own impor- tance and dignity to stoop to pay his addresses to any but the first lady in the land — at least, that part of it in which his lot for the time being might be cast. I was mortified to find that his advances wtvQ not only tolerated but favored by Miss Meadows. What she perceived in him to admire, I was at a loss to know. I had formed such an idea of her good sense that I could not conceive how she, who had such a keen perception of the ludicrous, could for a moment endure the ridiculous affectation and inane platitudes of this self- conceited coxcomb. Nevertheless, the fact that his society was not only tolerated but sought by her, stood out to all appearance plainly enough — and however unwilling at first to do so, I could not but at length admit to myself that it was even so. That any one what- ever should be preferred before me in Mati cientJ this, ^ Had: one w better it wit! reflect the gai itself, a fello\ were h a vapic ate sn some V this is I dd crisis. said, w with hi ihithertc |subordi I could b materia f •?«;' LEFT AND OVERTAKEN. 75 Matilda's afTections, was of Itself suffi- ciently painful, but that I should be neglected for such a worthless fellow as this, was humiliating to the last degree. Had I been superseded in her regards by- one whose merits made his claim to favor better than my own, I could have borne it with some degree of patience, from the reflection that what was my own loss, was the gain of one dearer to me than even life itself. But to see myself rejected for a fellow whose recommendations to favor were his foppery in dress and demeanor, a vapid regularity of feature and effemin- ate smoothness of complexion, which some were pleased to call good looks— this is what wounded me to the soul. I determined to bring matters to a crisis. My employer, as I have already said, was desirous that I should engage with him as partner in the firm in which hitherto I had stood in the relation of a [subordinate. Nothing, I was convinced, could be more to my advantage, so far as material interests were concerned, than to •3 ;3 f 76 LEFT AND OVERTAKEN. accept this proposal. By this means, I had every prospect of rising to as eminent a position in life as it had ever been my highest ambition to attain, and, as far as money could do so, of forming to myself a home such as it had ever been the dear- est wish of my heart to possess. But even on the threshold of fulfilled desire — on the borders of the promised Canaan of hope — I paused and hesitated. All my plans had been formed with the idea of Matilda ever present to my thoughts. I had proposed to myself no scheme, had promised myself no pleasure which she was not to applaud and to share. And now, if she who was so intimately bound up with all my projects for the future, should disappoint me, I felt that everything from which I had anticipated so much enjoyment, would, without her, be only vanity and vexation of spirit. I resolved, therefore, ere committing myself to any settled mode of life, to as- certain the real state of her feelings tow- ards me. This I chose doing by letter h*; !!| LEFT AND OVERTAKEN. 77 ISj 1 nent my 'ar as yself dear- rather thati by a personal interview. I therefore wrote to her, making confession of my love ; informing her of the strength and long duration of my passion, remind- ing her that once her manner towards me was such as to encourage me to hope, and that I was not aware of having done anything to lead to a change on her part. Then I briefly explained my present posi- tion and future prospects, adding that it had always been my aim to preserve a name spotless and without reproach ; and if she would graciously consent to assume it by becoming my wife, it would even be my care that she should never have occa - sion to blush for it. Could she, by throwing in her lot with mine, and agreeing to ac- company me in this way o'er the voyage of life, hope to promote her own happi- ness, I could assure her she would be com- pleting mine. In conclusion, I remarked that of course all would be conditional on her father's consent, whose views on the matter I had written to ascertain. Should his answer, I wrote, be favorable, as I had I m 78 LEFT AND OVERTAKEN. little doubt it would, and should she her- self make no objection to my proposal, I appointed an early day wherein to call upon her, and talk the matter over in a personal interview, as it was of too inti- mate and interesting a nature to be wholly disposed of by letter. My note had been sent to Matilda by the post-boy, who called every morning and evening at both Rosedale and Arn- ville, on his way to and from the extreme stations forming the opposite limits of his daily route. On the following morning, by the same convenient carrier, I received Miss Meadows' reply. The reader who has ever been placed in like circumstances, can imagine my eagerness to ascertain its nature. Had I ventured to guess its contents, could I ever have anticipated their real character ? On opening the note I read as follows : *' Dear Fred : " Before receiving your communication I was already engaged, which must be LEFT AND OVERTAKEN. 79 her- jal, I call in a I inti- hoUy da by rning Arn- treme of his rning, ceived T who ances, ain its ess its ipated le note ication .ust be my apology for not acceding to your pro- posal, I am, of course, sensible of the great honor you intended me — name and all — but regret exceedingly that on this account I must decline it. I have no doubt, however, that you will find a more suitable person to take my place in the manner proposed, and one more worthy of you, as they say in novels. I know of one, young, amiable and fair, who, if all reports be true, will be glad to make you amends for my inability to comply with your kind wishes on this occasion. — May I wish you joy and a pleasant sail o'er the voyage of life as well. *' I am glad to hear that you are getting on so well. No doubt, if you persevere you will yet achieve something worthy of yourself, and rise to a position equal to your present favorable prospects. I heartily wish you every success. " I am nov going to write you a long letter this time. As I expect to see you here so soon, there is no need that I should write at greater length. Writing is so un- i IM 80 LEFT AND OVERTAKEN. satisfactory at the best ; and sometimes you have got things to say of too interesting and intimate a nature, to be with any pleasure entrusted to unconscious paper. I have got such a lot to tell you ! but I would rather not, until I have an opportunity of seeing you here at home — a pleasure which I hope soon to enjoy. Until then au revoir, and may you enjoy yourself to your heart's content. " Papa is obliged for your kind letter. — He thinks you are getting on wonderful- ly — approves your ambition, and hopes that w^hat you have already accomplished will only spur you on to greater efforts. He sp'ds you his compliments, and wish- es me to say that he is quite well. And as 1 am about it, and to wind off in due form, I may say that I am well also, and the rest of us, hoping this may find you the same. *' Your affectionate " Matilda." ^'.r?«i;' LEFT AND OVERTAKEN. 81 I was confounded, bewildered, amazed. I read the note over and over again — carefully scrutinized the address and signa- ture to make sure that it was really written by Matilda, and intended for me. There could be no mistake on these points. I could not comprehend it. There was such a tone of mingled sarcasm and levity pervading the whole, as I was altogether at a loss to account for. Of one thing, however, I was certain — my misery was complete. Matilda, my Matilda, was en- gaged, in all likelihood, to that brainless, heartless lawyer, whose influence, I had now no doubt, had been the cause of her changed manner towards me. But what did siA'i iTiean " by one amiable and fair," 'vhc^ was to make amends for her inability to respond to my wishes ? Had I by my conduct given her cause to think that my affection:: had strayed to another ? and had she but retaliated in thus favoring and accepting a rival suitor ? I could not recall a single instance where any act or word of mine could be possibly construed ill 'Mi> 82 LEFT AND OVERTAKEN. in this manner. The whole was a puzzle, Inexplicable on any theory I could frame. I would fain have believed the note spurious, were it not that the handwriting and signature plainly indicated it as Miss Meadows' own. And then every sentence almost had some ironical allusion to some- thing contained in my letter to her, and was evidently intended as a reply — though conceived in a spirit, I had almost said, of vindictive m.alevolence, such as I could not imagine Matilda capable una.: my provocation of manifesting. Indeed, the whole tone, the style and manner of address, seemingly so reckless — and I could not but admit to myself so heartless — I could not at all reconcile with the idea I had formed of the sweet and amiable Miss Meadows. Was it that, in being lost to me, she was also lost to all those gentle sympathies and refined feelings, which, in my estimation, had invested her with so many and engaging charms. That I should be forced to ad- mit such a conclusion, so repugnant to LEFT AND OVERTAKEN. 83 and every feeling of my nature, was the most cruel stroke of all. Fler idea had in my mind been associated with all that is gen- erous and good, elevated and pure ; and now, in relinquishing all hope of ever claiming the beautiful Matilda as my own — must I also relinquish the exalted idea I had formed of her character — dismiss that upon which I had set an inestimable value, as something of no account, worth- less and base ? Anything but this, I said. Nay, rather let me cherish the idea of my beloved Matilda as I knew her — kind. Nevertheless, I carefully preserved the billet which had wrought my woe. It was the same which the reader saw me peruse a moment ago. There was a strange charm about it, which would not permit me to destroy it. It was all that remained to me of fair hopes now bksted^ of past pleasures and anticipated joys, now vanished '^ like the baseless fabric of a vision." It was my only memento of the loved, but now lost Matilda. As such, I iwai 84 LEFT AND OVERTAKEN. u- 1 ?.. ^« resolved to preserve it — with what motive I could not perhaps have explained to myself — it may be as a means of remind- ing me how much I had lost in the past, and how little I had to hope from the future, that, in this way, I might be the better fortified to pursue the course I had marked out for myself. For I had resolved to throw up my engagements in Rosedale, and seek relief in change of scene and occupation. How, I questioned with m.yself, could I sit down amid the wrecks of my former self — how could I witness another in possession of my most cherished treasure, and still pur- sue the even tenor of my way as before ? The thing was impossible. Let those who will, call such a state of feeling, folly. Once I could have laughed with the loud- est ; but now all was too real, too present to be got over by either reason or ridi- cule. My love for Matilda had become the ruling passion of my mind — the centre round which all other thoughts and feel- ;n !' LEFT AND OVERTAKEN. 85 ings, hopes and fears, revolved. It had penetrated the inmost recesses of my being, the most deep and sacred as well as the most common and superficial. It obtruded itself in my buying and selling, my waking and sleeping, and was present even at my devotions. It was the amal- gam which had served to draw out and shape the scattered golden sands of my life into beauty and form ; and now that it was dissipated, all had crumbled away into rubbish and dross. It was the foun- dation of my gorgeous air castles, and now that it was removed, all came top- pling down in hopeless destruction, over- whelming me amid the ruins. I considered it, however, weak to despair. I resolved to rise superior to my misery, and set about building such a superstructure of happiness on the ruins of my former Paradise, as was still possible with what materials yet remain- ed to me. My leisure moments I had often em- ployed in acquiring a knowledge of the m 86 LEFT AND OVERTAKEN. beautiful and useful art of phonography, and in training myself to ease and correct- ness in the different styles of composition. I had frequently engaged in writing articles on various subjects for the press, and my contributions had been always favorably received. I now applied for and received employment as correspon- dent and reporter for one of the most influ- ential papers of our Province. My duties were to commence in reporting the pro- ceedings of a great and interesting cele- bration to be held at a certain distant locality on my way, to reach which I was detained, as has been described. Owing to this mischance, T could not now by any possibility be in time to fulfil my engage- ments. But having carefully weighed all the circumstances of the case, I still remained fixed in my determination to proceed — hoping that my employer would excuse my failure when he came to know the unavoidable nature of the causes which led to it. At all events, my resolution was unal- obj( LEFT AND OVERTAKEN. 87 tered not to return home. The excite- ment of travel had seemed to be the only thing suited to my case — but in order to reap any benefit in this way, I must have some object in view apart from the desire to dissipate my melancholy. Such an object I supposed 1 could not better secure than in noting down such incidents worthy of remark as, in the course of my wanderings, might come under my obser- vation. And although apparently baffled in my design at the very outset, I had resolved to prosecute it still, if possible, to a successful issue. This had been my final resolution, when my attention was arrested and my feelings agitated in the manner described, by the appearance of a carriage at the door and my recognition of its occupants. CHAPTER III.— OVERTAKEN. For in these I saw before me none other than Miss Meadows and her brother, whom I have mentioned as a student at I- 88 LEFT AND OVERTAKEN. the University. My feelings at this mo- ment can be better imagined than describ- ed. I was overpowered by a tumult of conflicting emotions. Surprise, too, at their unexpected appearance, possessed me. With what object had their journey been undertaken ? and what strange co- incidence had brought them to the very place at which I had been so unwillingly detained by my disappointment of the morning ? From my point of observation I could watch their movements without fear of being myself observed. The landlord met them just as they were about entering the door. ^' Is this the house at which passengers who go by the cars usually put up ?" I heard Mr. Meadows ask, "Yes, Sir, it is here they mostly all stay," replied mine host. ** Did any one leave here by this morn- ing's train — any stranger I mean ?" *^ No, though there were several here who intended going, but owing to an LEFT AND OVERTAKEN. 80 lorn- unfortiinate mistake, were prevented from doing so." This was all I could hear, as the next moment all three had disappeared through the open door ; and when once within, the sound of their voices, shut out by intervening barriers, became too faint to enable me any longer to distinguish what ^vas said. Agitated and confused as I was, I en- 'deavored to compose myself to an out- ward expression of calmness ; for from various reasons I did not wish to betray the state of my feelings to Miss Meadows, should I by any chance meet with her during her stay — an event which happen- ed much sooner than I had calculated upon. In a few minutes I heard footsteps as- cending the stairs leading to the room in "whidi.! was ; and the next moment, ere I had bareiyxtime to snatch up a book and iling myself on the sofa to give the appear- ance of preoccupation, the door of the apartment was thrown open, and Matilda m wi G 90 LEFT AND OVERTAKEJT. and her brother made their appearance, ushered in by mine host himself, who, however, immediately afterwards took himself away — leaving me alone with those two, whom of all the world I felt it most embarrassing thus to encounter. How violently my pulses beat. My very breath came thick and labored with the weight of emotion which oppressed me. Nevertheless, I endeavored to appear calm. Reclined as I was on the sofa, I kept the book open before me, as if quite uncon- scious or quite regardless of the presence of others. Matilda seated herself in a chair at some distance from me. I had not yet dared to glance at her, but I felt her pre- sence none the less. Her brother, after seeing her seated, asked her if she was not fatigued. " O ! no," she replied, *' not in the least." It was the same gentle voice to which I had often so delightedly listened. How it thrilled through me now. LEFT AND OVERTAKEN. 91 ranee, who, took with , I felt liter. , My d with >edmc. r calm. ;pt the Lincon- resence :hair at ot yet ler pre- :r, after :he was in the U which How Her brother, walking over to the table, seemed to busy himself in looking over the books arranged there — while I felt that his attention was wholly taken up with me. I awaited breathlessly the develop- ment of events ; for I felt that in the at- titude I had voluntarily assumed, all movement must come from without my- self, and apart from atiy active interposi- tion of mine. I therefore remained pas- sive, — seemingly engaged with my book, though I felt my situation becoming every moment more and more embarrassing — feeling assured, as I did, that they had recognized me, and must be aware of the fact that I was studiously ignoring their presence. Presently, young Meadows stepped over to where I was, and layinor his hand familiarly on my shoulder, cried out, in his frank, hearty way : " Hallo ! Mr. Stockton — Fred — is it you? How d'ye do ?" he added, offering his hand in such a cordial, friendly man- ner, that I was fairly forced out of my ^-tu."^ r.X. IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) 1.0 *• lilM Si I.I 2.0 1.8 1.25 1.4 1.6 ^ 6" — ► s ma- ^w /a ^l. c-: ^» -#

.> If,,- 100 LEFT AND OVERTAKEN. 4 '' O, never fear me. I am only too glad to get rid of you." " That's it," answered her brother, " still true to your sex-when I know that you will be all impatience till our re- turn." I followed mechanically. Indeed, at that moment, I could scarcely have done otherwise. My feelings had been so worked upon, and were just then in such a state of repressed excitement, as to render me altogether incapable of reason- ing calmly on my situation, much less of striking out an independent course of ac- tion for myself. On arriving below, Mr. Meadows, re- questing me to remain where I v^as, went in search of the landlord. He soon re- turned with this functionary. " A private room, did you say ?" he was asking Mr. Meadows. "Yes." "I can accommodate you with that," he returned " come, this way ;" and he led off to the other end of the long hall in LEFT AND OVERTAKEN. 101 at re- which we were standing, where, showing us in to what appeared to be the family sitting room. — " There," he said, " you can sit as long as you have a mind to ; and ril see that no one will disturb you. Shall I bring you in anything ?" " No, not now," replied Meadows. He went out, shutting the door behind him. " Pardon me," began Mr. Meadows, addressing himself to me, " if my conduct appear impertinent or trifling. But really, my object in soliciting this inter- view was to show you a letter I wrote some time ago, and on the style and sub- ject matter of which I want your opin- ion. I think myself it is rather a clever production," he continued, something of the old lightness returning to his tone " but I do not wish to prejudge the mat- ter for you. However, might I, without presumption, venture a remark, I would say that I am very much mistaken if you do riot find its perusal suggestive if not interesting. But I adjure you," he added, 'i: {& It- /^ 102 LEFT AND OVERTAKEN. wl suddenly changing his tone, as he saw symptoms of impatience in my manner which I could not altogether repress, " I adjure you as you value my friendship to read and digest it carefully. For this end, I will now leave you to yourself," and so saying, he went out, leaving me to my own reflections and the letter which he had previously taken care to place open in my hands. At first, I felt disposed to rebel against this treatment and refuse compliance with a request conveyed in such an ap- parently flippant and trifling manner. I seriously debated with myself whether I was not compromising my dignity in thus consenting to act as a mere puppet in the hands of another. What if Mr. Meadows was merely using me for his sport, in the same spirit of reckless levity which his sister, as I thought, had on a former occasion manifested. I reflected severely on my pusillanimity in not hav- ing, from the first, manfully shaped out my own course of action, instead of al- T LEFT AND OVERTAKEN. 103 lowing myself to be led by one whose good faith I had many reasons to sus- pect. I rose up with a determination to sub- mit no longer to such humiliating treat- ment, and was on the point of resolving to return the letter unread, and refusing any further intercourse with the pair, who thus seemed bent on pursuing me even here with contep^p< and ridicule. But, on second t^ oughts, reflecting that my situation could not be rendered worse by any disclosures which the letter might contain, I concluded to read it. Besides, I had all along been haunted by a feeling sometimes approaching a conviction, that, under all Mr. Meadows' lightness, was concealed a serious purpose, which it im- ported me to know. I therefore re- solved to banish every scruple and every misgiving for the present, and read the letter which had been so strangely placed in my hands, feeling assured that its con- tents in some way affected myself. l! 104 LEFT Ax^D OVERTAKEN. CHAPTER IV— THE LETTER. B "< 1^' On glancing at the date, I found that it was but a few days old, and had been written by Mr. Meadows from Toronto to his sister, a fact which at first caused me again to hesitate about reading it. But, recolle'.ting my resolution, I forthwith ap- plied myself to its perusal — ^' My dear Matilda," it began, ^^ what has possessed you, sister mine ? Last week I wrote you with a request that you should come to the city, to be present, the ifirst day after the closing of our term, at the launching of my new boat, which, in compliment to you, I had intended to call by your name. There was to be a splendid re- gatta on the lake, in which all the young men of our set were to treat their lady friends to a sail, and in which, as you were acquainted with them all, I of course expected you to join. ** All this, as I thought, was a simple and proper proposal enough, and I had no other expectation concerning it than LEFT AND OVERTAKEN. 105 that you would merely write to let me know whether or not you could come. Well, I had a letter from you, it is true. But shades of Johnson ! and all other writers of solemn bombast, what a letter it was ! On opening it, the first thing I read was, 'Dear Sir.' I was thunderstruck. What ! I said, ' Dear Sir !' no less. \¥hen did my little sister get so dignified ? What new crochet is this has got into her sim- ple little brain ! Sir, forsooth, ' I have carefully considered your proposal, and coming as it does recommended by such good sense and prudence on your part, as well as enforced by all the good and gen- erous qualities which have invariably marked your character and conduct, and cherishing for you such a regard as I do, how can I do otherwise than receive it with favour ?* O. — O — here T drew a long breath. What a mighty sentence is this ! I said, moving along towards its magnificent close with all the gravity and dignity of an epic poem or a tragedy in five acts. ■:fp 1% mi :f ^w mmil ■ !!l!l 105 LEFT AND OVERTAKEN. ' I have carefully considered.' Matilda carefully considering. Well, that's some- thing new. ' Such good sense and pru- dence on your part.' The Meadows' interest is surely looking up. ' Matilda carefully considering.' * Such good sense and prudence on my part.' ' And all the good and generous qualities which have invariably marked your character and conduct.' By my halidan, if that be not sound, it, at least, sounds welL The alliteration beats Addison's * sin and sea- coal,' hollow ; ' character and conduct,' forsooth. * How can I do otherwise than receive your proposal with favour ?' How,, indeed ! and such a proposal ! E'en that she, with her peerless presence, might Grace the proud launching of my gallant boat. Upon the glassy wave. After wading through that sentence, I launched off into heroics and blank verse as easily and naturally as Noah's ark, raised by the waters of the deluge, float- ed on to Mount Ararat, [atilda some- l pru- ,dows' Matilda [ sense id all which iracter hat be The id sea- iduct,' sethan HoWj, ^, might t boat. encCy I c verse 5 ark, . fioat- LEFT AND OVERTAKEN. 107 But seriously, my dear girl, after read- ing your letter through, I am afraid there is some mistake, and I write to you with all haste, in order that, if such be the ca3e, you may know of the error, and see to rectifying it, ere any unpleasant consequences should ensue." I had read^thus far, when Mr. Mea- dows entered, this time accompanied by his sister, who, while betraying a charm- ing confusion, yet came forward with that easy grace and confidence natural to her. "Well, Fred, lam back again, you see ; and have brought this girl along with me, who, in spite of all her^ brave resolves, has felt the time pass heavily during our absence, and says she would rather not be left alone again. But what do you think of the letter ? A model in its way, is it not ? " I have not yet finished it," I replied, " but what I have read would almost lead me to believe what I can scarcely hope to be true." 1 r. t ,1, :'f. ir i08 LEFT AND OVERTAKEN. ll " Ah ! this skepticism, so inherent in the human breast, and so prone to mani- fest itself in the most trivial as in the most important matters. No wonder that theologians preach so much against it. But I cannot stay to hear your criti- cisms or solve your doubts just now. I must go and see to hastening preparations for our departure, as I intend going off immediately. Meanwhile, perhaps this dear delinquent may be able to remove all dilTiculties to your entire satisfaction." He went out. I was left alone with Matilda. She was sitting on a low settee placed on one side of the room, while I occupied a chair at some distance from her. How lovely she appeared at that mo- ment. Her dress was plain but becoming. Matilda's taste in dress had always been one of those good qualities in her which excited my admiration. Whatever the prevailing fashion might be, and however uncouth and ungainly it might appear, as worn by others, she always in adopting it contrived to make it appear pleasing and attractive. t >> I LEFT AND OVERTAKEN. 109 'Iff How she was dressed on this occasion I cannot presume to say. I am not sufli- ciently versed in the mysteries of ladies' apparel to be able to describe it critically, or to condescend upon those points which constitute its beauty and fitness or the opposite. I leave such things to mill- ners and those who aflect their art. Like the untutored child of nature, who in- stinctively turns his eyes away from th^ formless waste, to gaze with delight on the lovely landscape, without pausing to consider what repels him in the one case or attracts him in the other, I am con- tent to feel that certain modes of dress appear pleasing, while others violate all my ideas of taste, without waiting to in- quire what particular combinations of color and of outline have contributed to the effect in either case. Matilda, on this occasion, was dressed in such a way as to heighten, and if that were possible, improve her natural charms. She had divested herself of her hat and cloak, so that the full beauty of her lovely I rim {■\m i ■>.■ i :: i! i no LEFT AND OVERTAKEN. m r- face and graceful figure, shone out un- obstructed by any such disguising en- velopments. If 1 had once supposed that my pas- sion for her had been crushed or conquer- ed, the intensity and power with which it revived at finding myself thus once more in her presence, would have convin- ced me that I was in error. Nevertheless, irrevocably, as I felt my- self at that moment to be in love with her, the feeling was far from plunging me into despair. From the first moment that her brother had accosted me, a vague hope had sprung up in my mind that Matilda should yet be mine — that all along she had been true to me however much appearances might seem to indicate the contrary. While reading her brother's letter, this hope had grown stronger and stronger, and now it had almost ripened into r'-rtainty. We had both preserved silence for some time after Frederick had gone out — feeling embarrassed by the strangeness of our ■A; » ' l^^a LEFT AND OVERTAKEN. Ill t un- y en- ' pas- quer- ^hich once )nvin- it my- 2 with mging oment vague d that lat all )wever idicate other's ;er and ipened ir some ■feeling Df our situation — when Matilda opened a con- versation by saying : " I suppose you are surprised to see us here." " I have been surprised," I remarked. *' Perhaps displeased at the manner in which we have acted towards you," she said. "As to that,'' I rejoined, "I shall re- serve my opinion until the object of your acting has declared itself." '^ Pray, don't be so severe ; I have no intention to act a part — I only wish to be sincere." " Pardon me," I said, interrupting her, '^ I did not mean to be severe, though I have felt aggrieved. This letter," I added, " which, at the earnest entreaty of your brother, I have been led to read, almost persuades me to hope — to believe — that — a mistake — in short. Miss Mea- dows, that the reply — " '' Which was intended for you, was re- ceived by him," she finished . "And I was deceived, and you love me." 'I \* Y*-. i^ If !' ! ' ' m 112 LEFT AND OVERTAKEN. 1* *f' p ft "I ill It^' I had moved across the room to where she was sitting, and was now at her side." '* Can you doubt it ?" she answered, " after all the trouble I have taken." The next moment I had clasped her to my bosom. " Bless you for a dear, good girl, as you are. But I have not yet found out the cause which led to the unhappy mis- take." " That is soon told. The reply to your note and my brother's were both written on the same day. I had written your different addresses on two separate envelopes, in each of which I had enclosed its proper letter. But ere I had time to seal them, I was called hastily away by the violent crying of little Susie, who had fallen and hurt herself, and in my absence one of the boys, Tom, who is always up to mischief of that kind, came in to my room, and seeing the two open letters lying on my table, quietly substituted the one for the other." " The young rascal," I exclaimed, but my tone was not a bitter one. € LEFT AND OVERTAKEN. 113 " You must forgive him, as erally the poor fellow had no idea that the conse- quences of his playful act would have been so alarming." she said, archly. " In confessing it afterwards, he said he did not think there could be much harm in it, as the letters were only for you and for brother Frederick, anyway." " The sly rogue that he is," I said. *^ And when he came, nothing would do him but that I should go with him right after you, for he concluded that the mis- take in the letters was the cause of your leaving so abruptly. You were just a day ahead of us. We found out which way you had taken ; and when we came here, Fred saw your name entered on the books of the hotel as one of yesterday's arrivals ; and the landlord told him that you were still here, having been left this morning by the cars. That's the whole story. And now, what do you think you deserve for running away in this manner, without ever thinking it worth while to come to see me, though I might have set you right, and saved all this trouble." 4 114 LEFT AND OVERTAKEN. It '^ Forgive me," I said. " How could I ever have given way to doubt ? But then, the note I received did seem as if intended for me ; and it did look so like a reply to mine, only written in such a . But I will not think of that. One thing, however, I don't quite under- stand. You mentioned that you were engaged ; and I thought, it must surely be to that fop of a lawyer who used to be so much in your company. Of course, I don't think so now ; but still, I cannot altogether understand it." " That was my engagement to meet with yourself. But if your faith in me had been what it ought to be, you would have easily got over all such stumbling blocks ? Did I think, when you ran away, that you had gone with some one else ?" " Nay, if you begin to speak that way, I must stop that pretty saucy mouth of yours," I said. Just then the door opened, and her brother entered. *^ Whew ! " he whistled. " Tempora P LEFT AND OVERTAKEN. 115 mutantur et mutamur in illis. Truly, there is but one step from the sublime to the ridiculous," he exclaimed. " Pray confine yourself to the Latin," I rejoined. " It is the very thing for you. Such a dignified, philosophic lan- guage ! It is the only proper vehicle for the expression of such terse aphorisms of wisdom." Y) " Let him talk — Fred is a privileged character," said Matilda. " Two against one ! I'll give in. I see how it is. After all your high tragedy airs, you only waited the opportunity of getting my back turned to descend from your stilts, and putting your heads toge- ther, conspire in this unconscionable way against poor me, I might have known what the result of leaving you together would be. But," he suddenly asked, assuming a serio-comic tone, " are you quite satisfied about the letter, Fred?" But I need not continue my story longer. Suffice it to say, that I was easily prevailed upon to accompany Fred and m 116 LEFT AND OVERTAKEN. his sister back to Rosedale, where I found my employer as disposed as ever to grant me the position he had formerly ofTered. I was at once received as a partner in the firm, and it was not long after until I took a partner to myself for life. ■■■I Eliristmus feitrol. Come, bairnics, come, Come dance with joy and glee ; And merry in your home. Another Christmns sec. But snows are falling, an/ winds are blowing. And thousands there are beyond your knowing, Of bairnies as young and as fair as you. Whom Christmas will bring no joys unto. Sing, bairnies, sing. For my heart and soul rejoice. To hear the welkin ring With the sound of each merry voice. But Christmas goes, and Christmas comes. And countless numbers of little tongues. Which gladly would sing their Christmas song. Will be mute through this winter evening long. Skip, bairnies, skip. Around your Christmas tree ; No frost or cold will nip In the bud, your mirth and glee. But think cf the many who scarce can find, A shelter or cover from snow or wind. Who gladly would share but a little part Of the joy now filling each youthful heart. 118 CHRISTMAS CAROL. Laugh, bairnies, laugh. For now's your time to be gay ; Your childish pleasures quaff, In your short, bright youthful day. Before on life's billows you tumble and toss,— For the world that's before you has many a cross And the pleasure you find in your early years. May be washed from your thoughts in a flood of tears. So look, bairnies, look. To Him who was born this day, And read in His blessed book. How He washed your sins away. Then, though years may come and years may go. Your river of life will calmly flow ; And bear you along to a haven of rest,— To join in the praises and songs of the blest. 7t evi I cross irs, iood of The Hon. Thomas D'Arcy McGee, assassinated at Ottawa, 7th April, 1868. — The following lines were written on the evening of the same day, and appeared in the Montreal Daily JVitnea of the 8th. t lay go, St. Canadians weep. Throughout your vast domains, A hero's gone to sleep ! And all that now remains Of him you loved. And him who loved vou well Will soon be moved To sound of ^uneral bell. No soldier's death For you he died, 'tis true. Yet tell with bated breath How he has died for you ; And how he fought A nobler battle still. Where depth of thought Was joined to strength of will; ' ^"•^*' 120 IN MEMORIAM. And how each noble part. That goes to form the man, Dwelt in the heart Of him, who never can Again uplift his head Within your senate's hall. But now lies cold and dead. Martyr to duty's call. \ox %0}fxdl The foUowmg attempt at an embodiment of public senti- ment regarding the assassination of the Hon. D'Arcy McGee appeared in the Montreal Evening Telegraph of 13th April. In tiroes like these it frequently appears, TJiat there are many crocodiles to shed their tears — Reptiles themselves, who dare not do such things. But quietly stay behind and pull the strings ; And when their plans receive their consummation. Come forth with rueful faces to the nation. Expressing detestation of the foob. Who in their hands have been the wretched tools. But whom 'tis plain to see t'would give more pain. If their foul purpose they had failed to gain. Justice 'tis said is blind, why should she not ? And why should one base wretch who drew the lot. To stain his hands with murder, meet his fate Alone? Thousands such lives would never com- pens£.te A nation, but yet of very tender years. Mourning a nursing Father with its tears. |»ttb 0' tkt ^9 Land o' the maple leaf, land o* the beaver. Land by adoption o' Scotia's sons; Land o' bricht promise tae a' those wha leave her. Land noo the birth-place o' oor little ones — Gladly we hail thee, thou kind foster mither ; Fond aspirations we breathe oot for thee. Think o' thee only, and no o*^ anither. Save our dear native land far ower the sea. Proodly we'll stand for thy fame and thy cause. Bravely defend thee frae foe an' frae wrang;- Prood o' oor kintra, oor Queen, and oor laws. Ne'er shall be wantin' oor tribute 0' sang; Dwells there amang us the man wha forgetteth The land o' his sires and the place a' his birth. On whose wide-spread dominions the sun never setteth, — The noblest, the freest, the best upon earth B" No, no, we are sons, an' are prood tae confess it, O' the land o' the thistle, the dirk, an* claymore; And her motto, " Nemo me impune iacesiety^' As Canadians, we'll wave ower oor heads evermore. LAND O' THE MAPLE LEAF. Oor hames arc here, oor hearts are here, — Canadian soil to us is dear ; Here hac oor little anes been born, An' here frae us bv death been torn ; Here silv'ry locks hac croon'd the head ; Here mithcr earth received oor dead, Like yello leaves which timely fa'. An' cover'd by the winter's snaw, Return tae fructify the earth. An' gie' new living beauties birth. * * • * • 123 Dominion mithers, wha, midst hopes and fetrs, Watch ower ycr bairnies i* their tender years; Wha' fain wad see them walk the narrow road. Teach them tae love their country an' their God. Dominion maidens, wha oor hooseholds grace. Ye can be usefu' i' yer sphere an' place ; Around yer future a bricht halo hovers. As the Dominion's happy wives an' mothers. Dominion youths, yer country's hope an' stay. Be up and doin' in yer time an' day ; Look upwards, onwards, tae yersel's be true, — The New Dominion casts its cen on you. Dominion merchants, let yer names gang forth. As but anither name for sterling worth; An* at yer ca' let a' the world respond, A New Dominion merchant's word's his bond. 124 LAND O' THE MAPLE LEAP. Dominion farmers, still wha saw yer seed In hope, aye look to Him, in time o' need, Wha's faithfu' promise aye doth stand maist sure. Seed time an* harvest ever shall endure. Ye chosen anes wha guard oor country's faith, Tak* tent tae what the holy Scripture saith ; Cry lood, an* spare not, show the nation's sin. Spread wide yer nets, an* bring the people in ; ^ill oor ain God his blessin* does command. And oor Dominion mak* a holy land. ti:- t sure, ith, sin, in; tid. '^rjtts ttnir ^\ox\x. m Early in the summer of the present year the writer visited the villages of Fergus and Elora, and being struck with the beauty of their respective situations, their close proximity, and above all, their exceedingly poetical names, he conceived the idea of representing them in the position of lovers ; and he trusts that the following allegorical Idyl may not be unac- ceptable to the inhabitants of both places. Ae simmer's day, just as the sun The half o' his day's work had dune; Altho' his rays I scarce could thole, I set me oot to tak' a stroll, I'll tell ye whaur and whither. I started frae the toon o' Guelph, — Namesake o' our gude Queen herself. And bent my steps towards the north. To see if there was ocht that's worth, 'Twixt it and the Grand River. I found a fertile country wide. Spread oot to view on ilka side, Wi' sheep and knout in mony a field — And healthy craps bad fair to yield, Eneuch for man and beast. But growin' weary wi' my walk, I sat me doon a rest to tak', Thankfu' at least nae scornfu' pride Denies the man wha does na' ride, A seat at nature's feast. 126 FERGUS AND ELORA. I had na' sittin' vera lang. Before I heard a blythsome sang. Which fell upon my listenin' car. Like music frae some heavenly sphere. Which mortals overpowers. Nor was I lang kept in suspense. For scoogit frac me by a fence. There sat a buxom country lass, Ettlin, nae doot, that I wad pass And tak* nae notice o' her. Noo as I am but flesh and blood. Ye canna blame m.e gin I stood, — To listen to her simple strains, I thocht at least was worth my pains. And try to see her face. Which sune I did, she was a queen, A couth, and cozy ane I ween ; Aboot her neck her golden locks Lay fair as yellow wheaten shocks. And clearly showed her race. She started up as I drew near ; Quoth I, my lass, ye needna fear. There's naeihing sure that need alarm ye. For by my troth I wadna harm yc — Sit down and gie's ycr crack. The blood came mantlin* up apace. And blushes spread upon her face. Which showed I was aboot to hear The oft-told tale o' hope and fear. That follows lovers' track. m nye. FERGUS AND ELORA. 127 O wha can read the unwritten book, — That volume in a maiden's look; What heart sac cauld that can despise, The pleading o' twa bright blue eyes. Or hear without emotion. The simpJc tale o' rustic love. Pure as it cam' frae heaven above. Proceed frae artless, guileless lips. Soft as the rainbow where it dips Its colours in the ocean. Whae'er has seen the sun arise. And spread his glories ower the skies, Has learned to know, but yet in part. How love lichts up a woman's heart. And throws a halo round her. A woman's love, what tongue can tell, A woman's hate is deep as hell ; A maiden's hopes, a mother's pride — Woman, thy name must still abide. Enigma, none profounder. " But noo," quoth I, "my bonnie lass. Pray tell me hoo it comes to pass. That ye are sittin' here, yer lane; And whaur's yer hoose, and what's yer name i Nor think me rude for speerin." Says she, "I'm here at love's command, — The hoose I live in 's close at hand ; My Fergus I am here to see : Yon maple is oor trystin' tree. He'll come I am na fearin*. iMi l)li 128 FERGUS AND ELORA. And as forbyc my hoosc and hame, Yc also wish to ken my name, I'll no be blatc, but tell yc a', Syne after that I maun awa, — Kind Sir, my name's Elora. And Fergus, wha' may be ye ken. Is keen for me to tell him when I'll change my name, and leave my mither. Gang up wi' him, and live thegethcr. Be his in joy and sorra. He says he lo'es mc best o' a'. He'll busk me weel and keep me braw ; He'll build for me a snug wee cot. If I'll but gangand share his lot. Be it for weal or woe. Gang wi' him, lass, I ken him weel. He is an honest kintra chiel ; And sure am I the word he's spoken By Fergus never will be broken ; Ye maunna say him no." She lookit at me ance or twice. As if she liket my advice ; The way she twirl'd her apron strings Show'd she was afF on Cupid's wings. And couldna' for her life Conceal the joy that filled her heart, Tho' weel she tried to act her part, — But a' this noo is past and ended ; Her love-sick heart she sune got mended. For noo they 're man and wife. FKRGUS AND ELORA. And if ye gang ye'll sec the spot, Whaur they have built their tidy cot ; And rinnin' thro' the fields and lanes, Ye'll see a lot o' vveel-faur'd weans, Wha ken na' ocht o' sorra. Their neebors' joy, their kintra'a pride. Beloved by a* they live aside. Are Fergus and Elora. 129 m'm l^e m0«tttinii ^Ueto. The view from the mountain at Hamilton is one of the finest in the Dominion. The following lines were written on the spot, and appeared in the Hamilton Tima. It' ' km 'Tvvas on a Sabbath morning still, I sat mc doon upon the hill. That's ca'd the Mountain View; I heard the birdies lilt and sing, — I watched the swallows on the wing j Ontario's waters calm and deep. Lay still as if in balmy sleep. Before me, clear and blue. Beneath my feet the city lay, Clasped in the bosom of the imj. Like lovers in embrace ; Above, the sky was clear and bright. The sun shed beams of golden light ; All round was still, and seemed to say We've here a peaceful Sabbath day, Sae dear tae a' oor race. THE MOUNTAIN VIEW. 131 My heart grew warmer at the scene, The tears came trickling frae my ecn. In looking at the place. Where I could hear frae auld an' young, The music o' my mithcr tongue; Where I could sec, an' I could meet. In mony a hoose in ilka street, An honest Scottish face. And as I paused, an' gazed thereon, I thought o' years an' days bygone,. Which can return no more ; An' hoo that mony there could tell, Wha as a stranger like myscl. Had kind an' friendly welcome got Frae ready hand o' brither Scot, On landing on this shore. Lang may this kindly spirit find A place in every heart an' mind — May a' be leal an* true ; May peace an' plenty aye be found. May health an' happiness abound ; An' a' wha gaze this scene upon, Find mair that's gude in Hamilton, Forbye its Mountain View. '\t mxxttim ntt ^0mtn0. The following lines were written at Toronto on hearing of the threatened Fenian invasion by General O'Neil. I': The Fenians are coming, oho, oho — The Fenians are coming, oho, oho ; But faith they had better be cautious and wary oh. Before they cross over the Lake of Ontario. The Fenians are holding a fair, a fair — The Fenians are holding a fair, a fair ; They had better buy skins For their backs and their shins. For they'll need them ere lang very sair, sair, sair. For they'll need them ere lang very sair. The Fenians are shouting, oho, oho — Their brave anes are spouting, oho, oho ; But the fare they'll get here, in the way we've been wont to. Will be cold steel and shot from the boys of Toronto. The Fenians are coming, a wecl, a weel — The Fenians are coming, a wecl, a weel; But they've reckoned the cost Without asking their host, Tho' the man that's to bring them's O'Neil, O'Neil, Tho' the man that's to bring them's O'Neil. THE FENIANS ARE COMING. 133 But wha'll tak* them back, oh wha, oh wha — But wha'll tak' them back, oh wha, oh wha ; It'll no be five dollars. But ropes round their collars. They'll get for their whack big and sma, sma, sma. They'll get for their whack big and sma. The brave Montrealers, an' a', an' a' — ^ The brave Montrealers, an' a', an' a'. Have a rod laid in pickle. With which they will tickle. And drive the vile reptiles awa', awa'. And drive the vile reptiles awa'. Then hurrah for oor Queen, boys, hurrah* hurrah. She's the best ane we've seen yet, ava, ava ; She's fair and she's good In her lone widowhood : So stand fast to her cause ane an' a', an' a'. So stand fast to her cause ane an' a'. *x 11 11'' Inlji u m kK' '^ ubics cv air. To enable the reader to understand the following lines, it is necessary to state that they were written on board the S. S« "Best Bower," Captain Waddell, while detained for three days in Cuxhaven Roads, on her voyage from Hamburg to Leith. The voyage usually performed in fifty-four hours was protracted by bad weather, and a heavy deck load of fruit and cattle, to eight days. A number of the passengers, to while away the time, agreed to write a poetical account of the voyage, which drew the following impromptu from the Author. Ye ladies fair, yc bearded men and shaven, Imprison'd in the "Bower" before Cuxhaven, On your behalf I now invoke the Muse, And trust her kindly aid she'll not refuse. Poets have written, and all sages say. Patience a virtue is, we day by day. Ought all to practice in each trying hour — I doubt they've never made a passage in the "Bower ;" For when she sails to this from Hamburg's city. And takes three days to do it, 'tis a pity. That they with stock of patience so unbounded. Should miss the chance — why hang it, 'tis con- founded. It never was a bargain in life's battle To be cooped up on deck with fruit and cattle ; All these are, no doubt, good things in their way. But bad companions in a storm at " say." \ YE LADIES FAIR. 135 i When people travel by a railway train. There one can always some advantage gain : For those disgusted with the speed or motion, C A leave at the first station, if they have the notion. But here the case is otherwise, you know. No matter be the progress fast or slow ; In patience you must eat from off your dishes, Oi ump into the sea, and feed the fishes. Jind » am -ure had Job or sage Shakespeare — j.^rom aught of either we can read or hear. Embarked v^'ch us, they'd sorely have repented. Had both r.-^t positively gone demented. But if th'jre is no rose without a thorn. Or joy unmixed to man o^ woman born ; Still it is no less true, as each one knows. That there are seldom thorns without a rose. And so it t":*"?, y^r friends, with you and me. For wher "Wc a lound we could not go to sea. To see w^. ^ ' Tt what we could see on shore. You .ie it w-iS iiot possible we could do more. And thus 'twixt land and sea:, and sea and land, W(; always had resources at our hand ; With books and cards, and various other ways. We managed pleasantly to spend eight days. Kind re ide?. should it your intention be To make > voya ^ 'cross the Northern Sea, Depei>d on thio, you'll neither fare nor izcd. ill. If you entrust yourself to Captain WaddelL J • b #asfa«r*s fonj. ! »« ni ap Through this world I've roamed, and wandered for years ; I've tasted its pleasures, shared its hopes and its fears ; I've journeyed by land and have sailed o er the sea, But all now have lost their attractions for me. And what, do you k, brings this chsnge o'er the scene ? What change has occui'. ' my aifections to wean? What makes me once more long to cross o'er the sea. But the home with its loved one that's waiting for me. t Then tell me no more of the gay city's throng — Its pipes and its tabrets, its dance and its song- — Let my heart-strings all chord and my music still be For my home with its loved one that's waiting for me. Tell me not of those pleasurers base natures enjoy, Engrossing their thoughts, as their daily employ; Let me still find my pleasure where my pleasure should be. In ray home with the loved one that's waiting for me. Then quickly I'll speed me my way to the goal. Where, though absent my body, still is present my • soul ; Once more I'll rejoice in, once more will I see The home with its loved one that's wsiting for me. ^nmtst. Sun of the morning, bright are thy beams. This earth adorning with thy golden streams ; Emblem of glory and source of our days. For thee is my story, for thee is my praise ; Emblem of Him who is Lord over all. Who is light, and in whom is no darkness at all. May He, who at first, by the word of His might. On this earth, then uncursed, made thee shed forth thy light; May he who ordained thee to rule o'er the day. At whose fiat thick darkness and clouds fled away Atune my dull heart, and my spirit control. And banish all darkness and clouds from my soul. K n ^itbbirtlj jpbtntnj ^tfltrtions. h May the services, Lord, of this day not be found To have been like water that's spilled on the ground. But enriched by Thy blessing, may they teach m.e the road. To the rest which ..ii-ains for the people of G-od. Yet Lord, Thoa cio.=-" kno'"- how large is the part. The things of this world have had of my heart ; And the little regard I too often have s-hown. To this day of the seven so expressly Thine own. Bless what is Thine own, and forgive what is mine. And fill my whole soul with Thy precepts divine ; Dispel the dark clouds that would hinder the light From reaching my heart in its force and its might. In numberless ways from Thy dwelling above. Thou hast showered upon me the proofs of Thy love ; Next to Thee may I prize the day Thou bast given. As a foretaste of what is experienced in heaven. Ipiir Kljilir ill f)tixbtn. Wc have a little child in hcavcri So sweet and fair, A little pledge in mercy given. To guide us there. We have a little child in glory — Oh, blessed thought ! — Whom Jesus tells the wondrous story Of what he bought. We have a child before His throne By day and night. All clothed in raiment not his own. Garments of light. We have a child whom Jesus guides In pastures green. Watches and cares for, and provides With bliss unseen. We have a child who sings his praises Midst angel throng, — A little voice 'mongst them, which raises The Lamb's own song. Wc have a child from sorrow free. And all alarms — Safe, gentle Shepherd, safe with Thee, In thine own arms. 1 ^ frl^e (|migratrt*s fjtagtr. '•r- Written on the Author's first arrival in Canada. The allu- sion in the second line of the first stanza, is to an accident by which he was deprived of one of his hands. Far from my home, my God, — Under Thy chastening rod. Hither I am brought. Oh, cause Thy glorious light to shine Into this weary heart of mine. And to Thy blessed will divine. Bring each rebellious thought. Here may my course be straight. On through the narrow gate That leadeth unto life. Oh ! make and keep me pure within. And with each strong besetting sin. Thy strength afford me to begin, A never ending strife. How and where Thy hand may lead, I know not, but Thou know'st I need Thy all sustaining grace. That every day with Thee begun. May sec each work and duty done In fear of Thee, thou Three in One, Who fillest earth and space. THE emigrant's prayer. 141 Far from wife and children dear, A solitary stranger here. To Thee, our God, I pray. Give us each day our daily bread ; And cover our defenceless head — ■ In every path we're called to tread. Give strength from day to day. Guard with thy covering hand All in niy native land Still near and dear to me. When joys and griefs and sins are o'er, — When earth and sea and time's no more. May we all enter through the door. Lord Jesus, Gcd, to Thee. -ill * ":' ^I^B f '<« 9 , m r m . I ) 1:1 f '^. lojiirjcrs' lijmn. Written in mid ocean, on the passage to New York, and sung by the piMcngers on board the S. S. Europa. TuNH — "Portuguese Hymn." Thus far in safety wc arc brought. Lord, by Thy help our journey through. Oh ! may wc praise Thee as we ought. And give Thee all the glory due. • Thou hold'st in hollow of Thy hands The heavens and earth and rolling seas ; They all obey Thy great commands. And execute Thy high decrees. Be with us. Lord, in what we've still Of this our journey to perform j And if it be Thy holy will. Defend us all from every storm. And when our journey^s o'er and past. And we have reached our destined shore. May we all meet in heaven at last, ' If on this earth we meet no more. ^ f^ of jflcUifottublunfeo Written whilst crossing the Banks. Ye banks and waves of Newfoundland Hoo can ye look sae bleak an' bare ; There's nocht on you but sea and sand. An' for yer looks I dinna care ; Ye'll break my heart, ye muckle cods. That gambol through this stormy sea. But I will lay a heavy odds. That cods and sauce are best for mc. Oft hae I roamed the decks around To look for ocht that's fresh or new. But naething else is to be found. Save sickening scenes an' waters blue; But let me once set foot on shore. Once clear of ship, an' sea an' pork, ni think twice yf it ere before, 1 come across ye to New York. ■mretoell I 10^' Farewell — a word how hard to speak, To those who to our hearts arc dear ; It drives the colour from the cheek. And fills the eye with many a tear. Farewell — yet still the word imparts Some rays of hope and comfort too ; If all fare well, then loving hearts May beat with hope and joy for you. Farewell — thou word of human birth, To sinful man alone thou*rt given, — A word that's often heard on earth. But never shall be heard in heaven. f