Farewell to thee, England, the land of my birth,The dearest, the fairest of countries on earth,I love thee, yet leave thee, perhaps to deplore,Alas, it may be to behold thee no more.If at home I've a friend, yet true friends are but few,In duty to friendship I breathe him adieu,But joy to this bosom no friends can restore.I love them, yet leave them, I may see them no more.Old London, farewell,—my birth-place and home,Far distant from thee I am destined to roam,On the home I once loved a fond wish too I'll pour,Tho' its household and hearth I may visit no more.Sweet child of my love! Ah! the thought breaks my heart,To know that thy mother hath caused us to part,I love thee, yet leave thee, nor can she restoreA joy to this soul that may see thee no more.To the land of the stranger I go—yes—I go,In search of those blessings which it can bestow,Its forests, its lakes, I shall proudly explore,Far, far from that home I may visit no more.
Farewell to thee, England, the land of my birth,The dearest, the fairest of countries on earth,I love thee, yet leave thee, perhaps to deplore,Alas, it may be to behold thee no more.
If at home I've a friend, yet true friends are but few,In duty to friendship I breathe him adieu,But joy to this bosom no friends can restore.I love them, yet leave them, I may see them no more.
Old London, farewell,—my birth-place and home,Far distant from thee I am destined to roam,On the home I once loved a fond wish too I'll pour,Tho' its household and hearth I may visit no more.
Sweet child of my love! Ah! the thought breaks my heart,To know that thy mother hath caused us to part,I love thee, yet leave thee, nor can she restoreA joy to this soul that may see thee no more.
To the land of the stranger I go—yes—I go,In search of those blessings which it can bestow,Its forests, its lakes, I shall proudly explore,Far, far from that home I may visit no more.
Thus sang the young poet. But before morning had dawned upon the billows of the ocean all the poetic fancy that was flickering in his half-phrenzied brain was driven out by a serious attack of sea-sickness. His emanations were then of a much grosser sort of material than the etherial-essence of poetic sentiment. During three long and wearied nights he continued in a most pitiable condition; his thoughts bewildered and fluctuating; at times, half regretting the course he had taken. The weather was tempestuous during the voyage; but, at length, in the afternoon of the twelfth day the vessel and all the passengers were safely landed at Portland. That evening Fred went on board the train for Montreal, but did not reach his destination until late in the afternoon of the second day, the journey having been prolonged by a severe snow storm. The cold was very intense. It was then that the words of Charles Holstrom occurred to his mind about the Canadian mountains of snow and the cold at 150 degrees of temperature below zero. He, however, arrived safely at Montreal, yet, cold, hungry and exhausted, and immediately engaged lodgings at theSt. James' Hotel, where after a warm and hearty meal he soon experienced a more comfortable state of feelings.
Night's shadows had settled down over the fair city. The great bell of the cathedral of Notre Dame was scattering its solemn tones over the dim air. The city-lamps were sending forth their mellow radiance. Throngs of pedestrians were moving to and fro. Sleigh after sleigh was hurrying along, filled with joyous souls, and drawn by sprightly steeds dancing as if it were to the sounds of the merry-tinkling sleigh-bells. Fred looked out upon the gay panorama of Canadian city life. It was a new and attractive sight to him, and he felt an itching desire to try the novel experiment of taking a sleigh ride; but his spirit recoiled within itself when the fact was brought forcibly to his mind that it was "Christmas' Night." He thought of the many happy Christmas evenings which he had enjoyed amid the society of his friends in the good old city of London. A thousand associations flashed across his memory, filling his solitary mind with sadness and regrets. Around him everywhere he beheld gay crowds flickering with joyous excitement. More keenly than ever he then felt that he was only a stranger in a strange land, isolated from congenial society, and far removed from his friends and his once happy home. Conscience awakened his mind to the reality of his past folly, and his heart was wounded by its own stings. A heavy weight of sorrow pressed deeply upon his bosom. A deep sigh rolled out heavily upon his lips. Tears glistened in his eyes; and alas, poor Frederick Charlston again wished himself back to London.
The holidays having passed, Fred sought out and found immediate employment in Montreal. The sad impressions that were engraven upon his mind at first began and continued gradually to wear off. New friendships were formed. Things became more and more familiar to him, and at length he experienced a much happier state of mind. At first he purposed writing immediately to his friends in London, but after a few postponements, resolved not to do so, as he considered it would show an effeminency on his part, and that a few month's silence would perhaps season their affection for him.
Two of his fellow-workmen, who belonged to a company of volunteers, persuaded Fred to join their ranks. He was tolerably well acquainted with military discipline, having practically served in a company during his residence at Tiverton; and he had also studied considerably the tactics of war, therefore he found no difficulty in getting himself initiated as a Canadian volunteer; but in so doing it ultimately proved to be another unfortunate step. The circle of his acquaintances was thus increased tenfold. Military glory unfolded its social charms. Friendly meetings with jovial comrades became more frequent. The foaming glass sparkled brightly with fascination. Temptation unmasked itself. Again and again his companions of the evenings had recourse to expedients to induce him to drink with them. He was willing to pass an evening and smoke a cigar, but sternly refused to even moisten his lips with the poisonous liquid, which showed a manly independence in principle, a dignity of honor; and it would have been well for him had he always continued as invincible.
"I say, Fred, you must have something to drink with us to-night," said Billa Haveril one evening as Fred and a few of his comrades were walking along Craig Street. "Here's the 'Royal Arms,' come in, boys—come in Fred, and I'll introduce you to Mr. Stone, a jolly good old Englishman. He knows how to warm up a fellow when the cold is 30 degrees below zero."
They entered, and became seated in a room adjoining the bar.
"Well, Fred, what's your choice," said Haveril.
"A glass of cold water," replied Fred.
"Horrible! horrible!" ejaculated Haveril. "Are you really going to commit an arctic outrage upon your sensibilities? That will never do if you intend living in Canada."
"Perhaps he wants to convert himself into an ice-house," exclaimed Harry Jenkins.
"Gentlemen," said Fred, "I previously informed you that I belong to the Sons of Temperance; you will therefore confer a favor by not pressing your kindness further upon me."
"Take it as a medicine, then; a glass will neither awaken your conscience nor injure your stomach," said Haveril.
"Do as St. Paul advised Timothy to do—take a little for your stomach's sake and your often infirmities," said Nichol Henderson.
"Come, Fred,one glasswill never ruffle a feather in your conscience," said Ernest Stevens.
"Come, boys! tip up your bumpers!" exclaimed Haveril, and then singing aloud, followed by the others in chorus,
"For Fred's a jolly good fellow," &c.
Frederick having declined was again pressed to drink, to which he replied—"I am willing to condescend to the wishes of the company in which I may be placed; but when principle is at stake I must necessarily decline sacrificing my honor to the demands of others, even those of my best friends, as I am a pledge-bound total abstainer."
"Pooh! pooh!" ejaculated Jenkins, "that's enough of your sophisticated balderdash. Do you not know that a London pledge is not valid in Canada?"
"Why, what's the difference," exclaimed Fred, "the principle is the same throughout."
"Well, sir, the difference is just this," said Jenkins, "every country has its own laws, and every subject therein is commanded to obey them, and to do so only while he is a resident. The laws of the temperance cause are based upon the same principle."
"Philosophically speaking, you cannot assimilate them," replied Fred.
"Civil laws differ according to the government of a country, the characteristics of a people, their intellectual, moral and spiritual condition, etc. Whereas, the temperance cause, in its strictest sense, is everywhere identical, and its laws universal; the essence of which in the abstract is simply 'to abstain' and 'to obey.' But suppose, for the sake of argument, that you are right in your opinion, I ask then, is there sufficient reason in the act of having withdrawn myself from the country in which I took the pledge, to disannul my responsibility, when I have not withdrawn my name from the Society's list of membership. And again, I ask you, if I desire to remain a total abstainer, wherefore should I compel myself unnecessarily, in order to please others, to sacrifice my liberty to the 'king of evils,' even should I feel no longer bound to obey the laws of the Society."
"I say, Fred, for goodness' sake stop," exclaimed Sandie Johnstone, "or else you will sink us so deeply into the ruts of philosophy that our friends will never be able to discover us."
"Go on, Fred, go on, you're a brick," cried Haveril. "Give Jenkins another dig with your philosophical pick."
"Fair play," shouted Jenkins, "'tis my turn to bait the trap."
"Bait it with a bottle of brandy," cried Haveril, "and we'll see who'll bite at it first."
"If Jenkins wont, I'll bet you a dollar you will," ejaculated Johnstone.
"Yes, Haveril would bite at the very devil if his Satanical Majesty was filled to the teeth with brandy," exclaimed Jenkins, the others chorusing with a series of discordant laughs.
"Well, well, gentlemen," exclaimed Fred, "if you desire the continuance of my friendship, and if you wish to respect the dignity of morality and the English language, you must refrain from using such insinuating balderdash and bar-room-slang."
"You're right, Fred, stick to your subject and make them all your subjects," said Ernest Stevens.
"Why, Fred, if you would only take a gentle sipling of the nectar you would know how to appreciate and enjoy our company," said Henderson.
"True friendship and true happiness are based upon moresolidmaterial thanliquids," replied Frederick.
"Well, Fred, as you are a sort of philosopher, allow me to ask you, if the true destiny of man, both here and hereafter, is not the enjoyment of life?" interrogated Henderson.
"Certainly, sir," replied Fred; "but I further believe that our Maker designed that man should use the proper means for the promotion of both terrestrial and celestial happiness."
"Our opinions are identical, then," exclaimed Henderson. "We are both of the same mind and yet cannot agree; and the reason is simply this—that I occasionally partake of a social glass with my friends as a means to awaken and promote enjoyment; whereas you teetotally reject the means. This delicious nectar sparkling before me has the inherent virtues of making me truly happy; I, therefore, use it for its medicinal qualities. So here is my best respects to you all, boys,—not forgetting you, Fred," added Henderson, raising the tumbler to his lips and draining the liquor to its very dregs.
"Ha! ha! ha!" ejaculated Jenkins, "I say, Fred, you are completely cornered up, Henderson's as good a philosopher as yourself."
"That may be so," replied Fred, "but I wish you, and Henderson also, to bear in mind that reason may be twisted into sophistry. He must first prove the premises of his arguments to be correct, namely, 'that spirituous liquors are conducive to the happiness of mankind'—otherwise, the syllogism must be false. To attempt such an undertaking would be a more fool-hardy task than that of Hercules to carry the globe upon his back. My dear sir, you would soon find that the universal evidence of the world would be against you. The horrid shrieks of suffering humanity would denounce the falsity of your arguments, while myriads of skeletons would startle from their graves with horrid indignation!"
"Hold on, hold on, I say, Fred," shouted Henderson, "you are firing away your balls at random and never look at the target."
"I think he has made a good many bull-eyes in your head," exclaimed Stevens.
"Come, come, boys, we'll have ahornon theheadof the subject," cried Jenkins.
"Yes, yes, that's the talk," responded some of the others.
"Hold on, hold on, gentlemen," exclaimed Henderson, slightly irritated. "I must have fair play in the game."
"By all means," said Fred, "I shall see that you shall."
"Well, sir," said H., "allow me to inform you, that in your arguments you deviated from the proposition I made, namely—that liquor as a means is conducive to human happiness. I mean the proper use of it; but you immediately darted off to the furthest extremity of the subject, and by a sort of superlative sophistry of your own, you attempted to conjure up a horrid array of evils arising from the abuse of that spiritual gift, which is the very essence of those cereals designed by the Author of Creation as the principal sustainer of animal life."
"You accuse me, sir, of doing injustice to your proposition, by representing the consequences of abusing that spiritual gift, as you very improperly term it," said Fred. "Your proposition, let me tell you, embraces only the germs; but I look forward to the fruits thereof. He would be but a very foolish farmer indeed, who would sow tares or imperfect seed for the mere pleasure of seeing his fields adorned with verdure, without looking forward to the consequences. Every good farmer anticipates an abundant harvest and accordingly sows the best seed. So should every man who desires to reap a harvest of happiness. He should look well to the seed, and sow only that which will eventually produce the best results. Again, you say that liquor when used in moderation, is a means of producing human happiness, and therefore should be used. I beg to differ with you; happiness arises not from the animal impulses of human nature stimulated by intoxicating liquor. Use it moderately you say. Alas, how many millions have been ruined forever by the taking of only one single glass at first,only one glass! Think of it! It is the magnet that attracts material akin to itself; alas, what a world of wretchedness and crime is reflected from that nucleus of Intemperance."
"Hold on, hold on, Fred," ejaculated Jenkins, "that'll do for the present."
"Go on, Fred, your illustrations are beautiful and impressive," cried Stevens, "go on, you are hitting the target at every shot."
"For goodness sake, Fred, do stop; or you will convert us all into a company of 'cold water-boys,'" cried Jenkins.
"Come! come, my lads," exclaimed Haveril, "we'll wind up for the present with a bumper of 'hot Scotch' and I'll pay for the drinks."
"Hot Scotch! hot Scotch!" shouted a half dozen of voices—and having partaken of a rousing bumper they called upon Fred to favor them with a song, to which he responded in the following Temperance Song, entitled "One Glass More."
Behold yon wretch at the tavern-bar:His matted hair hangs over his brow;The manly form and the noble soulAre wrecked and lost in the drunkard now.He shivering stands in his dirty rags,With bloated face and his blood-shot eyes;With quivering lips and a fever'd breathFor one glass more how he pleading cries.Chorus.—O give me, sir, but a single glass;O pity me now when my cash is done;The night is cold and my blood runs chill,And all I ask is a single one.Away from here, you miserable wretch;I want no more of your blubbering gas,Be off at once! or I'll kick you out;You'll get none here—not a single glass,What brought you here in your filthy rags,To disgrace my house in this drunken way.At once, begone! for you'll get no drink,No, not a glass, when you've nothing to pay.Chorus.—O give me, sir, &c.O, wherefore, sir, would you kick me out!Why so unjust to thy friend art thou;You gave me drink and you took my cash,You made me, sir, as you see me now.You scorn me too, as a drunken wretch,Debased and steep't in the dregs of sin;And when I ask but a single glass,You'll kick me out tho' you took me in.Chorus.—O give me, sir, &c.Thro' ten long years while I labored hard,You gave me drink, and you drain'd my purse,I was your friend, and your blessings then,Have proved at length but a demon's curse.My loving wife and my children dear,Have often sigh'd with a hungry soul,While I was here with my social friendsAnd drinking deep from your mad'ning bowl.Chorus.—O give me, sir, &c.My health and youth I have wasted here;To thee, for drink, my money I gave;I'm now a wreck of what I was once,And sinking fast to a drunkard's grave;All wasted here in my reckless course,Which neither thou nor time can restore;Then pity me now for old friendship's sake,And give one glass and I'll ask no more.Chorus.—"Begone from here, you miserable wretch!"The landlord cried, and he stamp't and swore,Then kick't him out to the cold night storm,And curs'd the wretch as he closed his door.
Behold yon wretch at the tavern-bar:His matted hair hangs over his brow;The manly form and the noble soulAre wrecked and lost in the drunkard now.He shivering stands in his dirty rags,With bloated face and his blood-shot eyes;With quivering lips and a fever'd breathFor one glass more how he pleading cries.
Chorus.—O give me, sir, but a single glass;O pity me now when my cash is done;The night is cold and my blood runs chill,And all I ask is a single one.
Away from here, you miserable wretch;I want no more of your blubbering gas,Be off at once! or I'll kick you out;You'll get none here—not a single glass,What brought you here in your filthy rags,To disgrace my house in this drunken way.At once, begone! for you'll get no drink,No, not a glass, when you've nothing to pay.
Chorus.—O give me, sir, &c.
O, wherefore, sir, would you kick me out!Why so unjust to thy friend art thou;You gave me drink and you took my cash,You made me, sir, as you see me now.You scorn me too, as a drunken wretch,Debased and steep't in the dregs of sin;And when I ask but a single glass,You'll kick me out tho' you took me in.
Chorus.—O give me, sir, &c.
Thro' ten long years while I labored hard,You gave me drink, and you drain'd my purse,I was your friend, and your blessings then,Have proved at length but a demon's curse.My loving wife and my children dear,Have often sigh'd with a hungry soul,While I was here with my social friendsAnd drinking deep from your mad'ning bowl.
Chorus.—O give me, sir, &c.
My health and youth I have wasted here;To thee, for drink, my money I gave;I'm now a wreck of what I was once,And sinking fast to a drunkard's grave;All wasted here in my reckless course,Which neither thou nor time can restore;Then pity me now for old friendship's sake,And give one glass and I'll ask no more.
Chorus.—"Begone from here, you miserable wretch!"The landlord cried, and he stamp't and swore,Then kick't him out to the cold night storm,And curs'd the wretch as he closed his door.
Frederick Charlston continued to step into a saloon occasionally to pass an evening with his comrades. Every expedient was tried to persuade him to taste with them; but with a manly spirit of independence he remained for several weeks invincible to their attacks. At length he was induced to take a tumbler with hot water, sweetened with sugar, and flavored with nutmeg and peppermint. But Jenkins one night gave the innkeeper a wink to put a few drops of Scotch whiskey into Fred's tumbler. A few drops were sufficient to slightly stimulate his brain, and produce a flow of social feeling within his heart; and thus, when too late, he discovered that he had tasted of the evil spirit. Having once tasted, he felt a less restriction of duty; and on subsequent occasions allowed a few drops to be added to the mixture.Only a few drops!how insignificant in number! how innocent they appear within themselves! But, alas, a few drops were added to the few, until they becamea great number; and before winter had thrown off its fleecy covering, Frederick Charlston could empty a tumbler of hot punch as readily as any of his comrades. Thus, he who had once nobly defended the cause of Temperance, and had remained so long invincible, at length dishonored that pledge which, even under the most trying circumstances, he had hitherto never violated. "Only a few drops" at first—yes,only a few drops, and therewith poor Frederick Charlston became the votary of intemperance. His Saturday nights were afterwards too frequently spent, or rather misspent, in deep carousals with his comrades. His Sabbaths were also often desecrated; and instead of appearing in his accustomed seat in Church, he was either sleeping away the sacred hours of the day, or, perhaps, polluting his mind with the filthy contents of some sensational novel. For a few weeks at first his moral feelings were occasionally awakened by the stings of conscience; but gradually they became less susceptible and less unwilling to recognize or respect the laws of moral responsibility.
April came, and with it came the alarm of an intended invasion of Canada by the Fenians. All the volunteers were ordered to be in immediate readiness, and several companies were stationed at different places along the Province Line, south of the River St. Lawrence. Every precautionary preparation was being made by the Canadian government, and also by the inhabitants. Great excitement prevailed during several days; and a series of appalling rumors were daily in circulation. But April passed away, and none of the Verdants made their appearance on the north side of the Line 45. There was apparently a lull in the Fenian camp.
But on the morning of the 23rd of May following, the bugle again sounded the alarm. Gen. O'Neill had again stirred up the "Circles" to their very "Centres," and there was a fearful rattling among the dry bones. Every telegram brought additional intelligence confirming the affair. The march had in reality begun; and 50,000 men, as rumored, were marching towards Canada, in a direct line to Montreal. All the volunteers in the Province of Quebec were again called to arms, and every available company forwarded at once to the chief stations at St. Johns, Hemmingford, and Huntingdon. The 69th regiment of British regulars, then stationed at Quebec, was ordered to the front immediately. The loyal Canadian farmers in the vicinity of the Border line turned out at once; and with rifle in hand, distributed themselves in detached parties to watch and await the avowed enemies of their country; and defend their hearths and households in the hour of danger.
The company to which Frederick Charlston belonged, had been ordered to St. Johns. Fred was delightfully excited by the occurrence, which afforded him an opportunity of realizing what he termed "a novel and romantic adventure."
On the morning of the 25th of May, 1870, a detachment of Fenians, headed by Gen. O'Neill, crossed over the Line in the vicinity of Eccles' Hill. A company of farmers who had stationed themselves behind the rocks of the hill, adjacent to the high-way, observed the approach of the enemy sneaking along the road. When the Fenians had arrived within reach of gun-shot, the farmers, unperceived, fired upon them, killing two or more, and wounding several. The astonished Verdants at once replied by a volley, but becoming disorderly bewildered by the incessant stream of smoke and bullets from among the rocks, they hastily retreated to an adjacent hill; and for several hours the opposing parties in ambush kept up a continuous but ineffectual fire at each other. At length a few detachments of Montreal volunteers and others arrived; and in conjunction with the farmers, took part in the action. The Fenians imagining that a formidable army had arrived, became panic-stricken and fled, headed by their leaders, at quick march over the Border Line, where the "Fenian Tragedy" was magnificently concluded by the ludicrous farce of the Great O'Neill making a hasty exit as a "State prisoner," under the confidential protection of Marshal Foster.
Simultaneously with this event, another squad of Green Jackets, headed by Gen. Starr, intruded upon Canadian soil, twelve miles beyond Huntingdon, and intrenched themselves about three-quarters of a mile from the Border Line. There they remained until the morning of the 27th, when they were speedily routed from their intrenchments and driven back beyond the Line by the Huntingdon Borderers and the 69th British Regiment.
The Battalions in this District, and upon whom the inhabitants had chiefly to depend, were the "Huntingdon Borderers" and the "Hemmingford Rangers," under their gallant commanders, Cols. McEachren and Rogers, and to whose valorous energy and that of the heroic officers and men under their charge, is the country in general deeply indebted.
Thus ended the Fenian invasion of 1870. Providentially not one of the Canadian party received even the slightest injury. The volunteers were immediately recalled, and peace was restored to the country.
Among those who took part in the action at Eccles' Hill was Fred Charlston. He returned to Montreal, bearing along with him as trophies of war, a Fenian coat, knapsack and rifle. So elated was he on the night of his return by his fortunate and glorious adventure, that he with several of his comrades got mortally drunk, so much so that he and two others had to be taken to the police station for safe keeping, where they remained until they became sobered off.
Frederick being somewhat of a poet, composed the following song in honor of those Canadian Volunteers who were brought into action along the Border.
OUR BORDER VOLUNTEERS.All hail! our Border Volunteers,All loyal, true and brave,Who boldly faced the Fenian foe,And spurn'd a coward's grave.All hail to all those gallant chiefs,Who stood the trying hour,And bravely led their heroes forthTo crush the Fenians' power.Chorus.—Our country's foe we need not dread,When danger's hour appears,While guarded by those gallant braves,Our Border Volunteers.No menial soldier fills our ranks,Nor yet a martial slave;O'er free and independent menOur banners proudly wave.They are our country's stalwart sons,Who love their home and hearth,Who honour still their Fatherland,And this which gave them birth.Chorus.—Our country's foe, &c.'Tis not the savage thirst for bloodWhich makes our heroes brave,'Tis not for conquest and renownTheir banners proudly wave.Their voice proclaims the love of peace,To all an equal right,But mercy spurn'd by reckless foesEmpowers their sword of might.Chorus.—Our country's foes, &c.Trout River's banks and Eccles' Hill,Shall echo forth their fame,And thousands yet unborn will rise,To shout our heroes' name.They form the martial battlementsOf Canada's frontiers,Those guardians of our household hearths,The Border Volunteers.Chorus.—Our country's foes we need not dread,When danger's hour appears,While guarded by these gallant braves,Our Border Volunteers.
OUR BORDER VOLUNTEERS.
All hail! our Border Volunteers,All loyal, true and brave,Who boldly faced the Fenian foe,And spurn'd a coward's grave.All hail to all those gallant chiefs,Who stood the trying hour,And bravely led their heroes forthTo crush the Fenians' power.
Chorus.—Our country's foe we need not dread,When danger's hour appears,While guarded by those gallant braves,Our Border Volunteers.
No menial soldier fills our ranks,Nor yet a martial slave;O'er free and independent menOur banners proudly wave.They are our country's stalwart sons,Who love their home and hearth,Who honour still their Fatherland,And this which gave them birth.
Chorus.—Our country's foe, &c.
'Tis not the savage thirst for bloodWhich makes our heroes brave,'Tis not for conquest and renownTheir banners proudly wave.Their voice proclaims the love of peace,To all an equal right,But mercy spurn'd by reckless foesEmpowers their sword of might.
Chorus.—Our country's foes, &c.
Trout River's banks and Eccles' Hill,Shall echo forth their fame,And thousands yet unborn will rise,To shout our heroes' name.They form the martial battlementsOf Canada's frontiers,Those guardians of our household hearths,The Border Volunteers.
Chorus.—Our country's foes we need not dread,When danger's hour appears,While guarded by these gallant braves,Our Border Volunteers.
The disturbance at Red River in the North-Western Territory, by the revolt of Riel and his accomplices was also at this time attracting the attention of the Canadian government. A force, consisting of regulars and volunteers, had already been organized; and was to be despatched immediately to Red River for the purpose of suppressing the Riel-Rebellion.
The glory of warfare had aroused within the mind of Frederick Charlston a love for adventure and a spirit of Canadian patriotism: and feeling a desire to enlist as a roving soldier, he immediately, after his return to Montreal, departed for Toronto, head-quarters for the Battalions designed for Red River. A few healthy and well-disciplined volunteers were still wanted; and Fred, having passed an examination, was initiated into the ranks as a volunteer for Red River.
On the evening previous to his departure he retired to his room; and having emptied a tumbler full of hot brandy punch, he sat down gloriously happy, and penned the following letter to his parents.
"Toronto, June 7th, 1870."Dear Father and Mother,—As you may feel somewhat disposed by this time to relish a bit of my history in Canada, I now, for the first time, since I left home, lift my pen to address you. I shipped in the S. S. Moravian from Liverpool, to Portland, U.S., and during the voyage had to undergo the terrible ordeal of sea-sickness. However, I arrived at Montreal on the evening of Christmas last, as sound as a church bell. I found immediate employment in the city at six shillings per day. I am partially fond of this country and the inhabitants in general, with the exception of a sort of people named French Kanucks; but they are as harmless as a flock of sheep; and stand as mere cyphers in the ranks of society. Last winter I joined a company of city volunteers; and was present at an engagement with the Fenians at a place known as Eccles Hill, on the 25th ultimo, of which affair you will have heard by the London papers. I went up boldly to the Front, and fought the Fenians like a tiger. I don't know how many I killed; but I feel certain that I must have annihilated quite a large number, as I fired away every cartridge I had. I brought back with me to Montreal a Fenian-coat, knapsack and rifle, &c. Since my return I have been lionized by my officers and comrades for my daring exploits. The sun of fortune has already begun to shine upon me; and I have determined that my progress shall be in the ascendancy, until I arise to the very zenith of my glory. I have just enlisted myself as a volunteer to go over 2000 miles into the dense forests of Canada to fight the savages of the North-West at Red River. I leave to-morrow. The undertaking is gigantic, but the glory that shall arise therefrom shall be immeasurably greater. Be not surprised should you hear of me ere long being gazetted as commander of a battalion in the North-Western Territory. On my return, to England, if ever, I shall take my Fenian trophies along with me, and perhaps a few hundred of Indian scalps, &c., as curiosities for my friends and old acquaintances."Give my respects to none but those who inquire kindly about me. My love to the little 'chick.' He may live to be yet proud of his father. I shall write again as soon as I get the savages disposed of.""Father, mother, sisters and brother, accept the expression of my love. Farewell, farewell.""Fred. Charlston."
"Toronto, June 7th, 1870.
"Dear Father and Mother,—As you may feel somewhat disposed by this time to relish a bit of my history in Canada, I now, for the first time, since I left home, lift my pen to address you. I shipped in the S. S. Moravian from Liverpool, to Portland, U.S., and during the voyage had to undergo the terrible ordeal of sea-sickness. However, I arrived at Montreal on the evening of Christmas last, as sound as a church bell. I found immediate employment in the city at six shillings per day. I am partially fond of this country and the inhabitants in general, with the exception of a sort of people named French Kanucks; but they are as harmless as a flock of sheep; and stand as mere cyphers in the ranks of society. Last winter I joined a company of city volunteers; and was present at an engagement with the Fenians at a place known as Eccles Hill, on the 25th ultimo, of which affair you will have heard by the London papers. I went up boldly to the Front, and fought the Fenians like a tiger. I don't know how many I killed; but I feel certain that I must have annihilated quite a large number, as I fired away every cartridge I had. I brought back with me to Montreal a Fenian-coat, knapsack and rifle, &c. Since my return I have been lionized by my officers and comrades for my daring exploits. The sun of fortune has already begun to shine upon me; and I have determined that my progress shall be in the ascendancy, until I arise to the very zenith of my glory. I have just enlisted myself as a volunteer to go over 2000 miles into the dense forests of Canada to fight the savages of the North-West at Red River. I leave to-morrow. The undertaking is gigantic, but the glory that shall arise therefrom shall be immeasurably greater. Be not surprised should you hear of me ere long being gazetted as commander of a battalion in the North-Western Territory. On my return, to England, if ever, I shall take my Fenian trophies along with me, and perhaps a few hundred of Indian scalps, &c., as curiosities for my friends and old acquaintances.
"Give my respects to none but those who inquire kindly about me. My love to the little 'chick.' He may live to be yet proud of his father. I shall write again as soon as I get the savages disposed of."
"Father, mother, sisters and brother, accept the expression of my love. Farewell, farewell."
"Fred. Charlston."
The volunteers for Red River were forwarded from Toronto to Collingwood; where they embarked on the steamers Algoma and Chigora; and proceeded 300 miles to Thunder Bay, on Lake Superior; thence by land and water through a dense wilderness, several hundred miles, to Fort Garry, at Red River. A prodigious undertaking, indeed, involving a vast amount of labor and privation; nevertheless the majority of the troops endured it tolerably well. During the first two or three weeks Fred Charlston stood the hardships and inconveniences with a brave spirit, and enjoyed with good relish the rough life of the military pioneer; so much so that he gave expression to his patriotic feelings in the following song, which he and his associates frequently sung with great gusto:—
Come now, my lads, we'll march along,And wave our banners high,The savage herds in forest wildsShall hear our battle-cry.The distant realm before us lies,The road is rough and drear,O'er lake and stream thro' mountain wildOur martial course we'll steer.Chorus.—Then march along, my hearty lads,And cheer your hearts with song,The nation cheers the VolunteersWho bravely march along.No scorching sun, no torrent shower,No toil, nor want of rest,Has power to check that British pluckWhich warms each loyal breast.No savage of the woods we dread,Nor death, nor danger near,We are a nation's loyal sonsWho spurn a coward's fear.Chorus.—Then march along, &c.That savage wretch with bloody hands,Usurping in his might,Shall keenly feel a nation's steelThat justifies its right."Revenge" shall be our battle-cry,Revenge the bloody foe:Fort Garry's walls with tongues of blood,Shall echo back the blow.Chorus.—Come march along, "my hearty lads,"And shout the martial song.The nation cheers the VolunteersWho bravely march along.
Come now, my lads, we'll march along,And wave our banners high,The savage herds in forest wildsShall hear our battle-cry.The distant realm before us lies,The road is rough and drear,O'er lake and stream thro' mountain wildOur martial course we'll steer.
Chorus.—Then march along, my hearty lads,And cheer your hearts with song,The nation cheers the VolunteersWho bravely march along.
No scorching sun, no torrent shower,No toil, nor want of rest,Has power to check that British pluckWhich warms each loyal breast.No savage of the woods we dread,Nor death, nor danger near,We are a nation's loyal sonsWho spurn a coward's fear.
Chorus.—Then march along, &c.
That savage wretch with bloody hands,Usurping in his might,Shall keenly feel a nation's steelThat justifies its right."Revenge" shall be our battle-cry,Revenge the bloody foe:Fort Garry's walls with tongues of blood,Shall echo back the blow.
Chorus.—Come march along, "my hearty lads,"And shout the martial song.The nation cheers the VolunteersWho bravely march along.
I will now silently pass over the space of three months, and leave the reader to follow in imagination the adventures of our hero in the Red River Expedition;—and as an essential character in the sequel of this story I will now take the liberty of introducing myself.
On a fine afternoon about the middle of September, 1870, I arrived at Kingston, Ontario, and took lodgings at the "City Hotel," where I intended to remain for a few days. I was then on a tour selling a poetical work which I had written, entitled: "The Canadian Minstrel." After tea, that evening, I stepped up stairs to the sitting-room, and sat down to write a letter to my friends at home. Shortly afterwards, and while seated there alone, a young man entered the room.
"I beg pardon, sir; I hope I'm not intruding," he exclaimed very politely as he entered.
"No, not in the least, sir," said I. He then walked over to the sofa, and pulling out a newspaper from his pocket, sat down and began to peruse it. I resumed my pen; and when finished with my letter, I addressed him somewhat familiarly, and we entered into conversation, chiefly about the war which was then being carried on between France and Prussia. He was apparently intelligent; and although slightly reticent at first, became gradually more conversive and familiar.
He appeared to be about 25 years of age, tall, and somewhat slender in figure; of keen a nervous temperament; with hair and moustache of a brownish color: features slightly prominent and very expressive. He was courteous in manners, and in general appearance, genteel and good-looking. His style of conversing was agreeable; his arguments pointed and logical; and his remarks, full of sympathetic sentiment, apparently the breathings of an impulsive moral nature. His countenance, although naturally expressive of energy, appeared slightly shadowed by an expression of sadness. Even in his manner and conversation there was a peculiar indication of deep thoughtfulness, tinged with melancholy. Respecting his own history he said nothing, nor did he ask anything about mine. I was however much interested in his company, and although strangers to each other, we passed a very pleasant evening together.
At breakfast on the following morning he sat directly opposite to me. We saluted each other in a friendly manner, and occasionally exchanged a few sentences. Shortly after we had retired from the table he came forward and addressed me.
"I shall bid you good bye, friend, for the present," said he, apparently in readiness to depart.
"And so you are going to leave," said I. "I'm sorry I had not the pleasure of a longer acquaintance with you."
"I leave for Toronto, where I shall remain a week or two. Should you be there shortly, please call at the 'Metropolitan Hotel,' and ask for me, I shall be happy to see you," said he, handing me a card with his name thereon.
"Thank you, sir, I will be happy to do so," said I: and having heartily shaken hands together as a mutual token of courtesy and good-will, he departed.
As I was desirous of attending the Annual Provincial Show, to be held at Toronto during the first week of October following, I passed all the intermediate towns on the line of railway, and arrived in that city a few days previous.
The evening after my arrival I strolled over to the Metropolitan to see the stranger referred to. He recognized me at once, and was apparently happy to see me. Although our previous acquaintance had been incidental and but of short duration, we felt on meeting again as if we had been old friends. He invited me to the sitting room; and we passed a few very agreeable hours together. On leaving I requested him to spend the following evening with me at the hotel at which I was staying. He complied therewith; and during his further stay of one week in the city our interviews were of daily occurrence.
During the following week the city was crowded to its utmost capacity; and the streets presented a gay and lively appearance, owing to the great influx of visitors to the Exhibition. In company with my friend I visited the "Show Grounds." Every department of the Arts and Agriculture, &c., were well represented, showing the vast progress and developments of the Province of Ontario.
The day of the closing of the Exhibition my friend specially invited me to his room to spend the evening. During our previous interviews he had said but little respecting himself. I noticed, however, that something was deeply affecting his mind; and that he was apparently desirous of making it known to me. But it was not until this evening that he, in compliance with my wishes, gave me the history of his past career: the greater part of which is narrated in the foregoing chapters of this story: the remainder I will now give in his own words; for, gentle reader, be it known that this person was none other than Frederick Charlston, with whom you are already acquainted.
"During the first part of the journey to Red River," said he, "I endured the hardships and fatigues tolerably well; but the encamping out every night upon the cold earth: the incessant labor; the hard marches over a rough road, and under a broiling sun, at length became too oppressive. Oftentimes I felt, as it were, unable to proceed a step further; but my proud spirit with a stern determination of will, exerted every possible energy, and I continued day after day to plod along with my foot-sore and way-worn companions. Our fatigues were however occasionally relieved by a general rest for a few days. But before one third of the journey had been completed I was seized one night with a severe attack of illness.
"The day had been excessively hot; the commander wishing to get forward that evening to certain grounds favorable for one week's encampment had recourse to what might be termed a forced march. Many of the soldiers suffered from the effects thereof; I was prostrated at once by a severe billious attack, accompanied with chills and fever, and also diarrhea; and when the companies resumed their march, I was unable to proceed with them.
"The evening previous to the general move the doctor made a special visit to my tent.
"'My young friend,' said he, as he entered, 'I have come to leave you some medicine as I must move with the army at an early hour to-morrow morning. Your health, although progressing rapidly, will not permit you to undertake the journey, at least for one week. However, you will be provided with necessaries, &c. The Captain has appointed a couple of honest Indians to remain and take care of you: and who will serve as guides when you are ready to depart. But my special injunction is—"Take good care of yourself," otherwise you will never reach Red River.'
"'Indeed, doctor, I'm afraid I shall never be able to resume the journey,' said I.
"'It would have been much better for you had you not undertaken it at first.'
"'Experience teaches fools,' I exclaimed.
"'Yes, and the wisest of wise men too,' added the doctor, with a sly wink.
"'I regret very much the course I have taken,' said I; 'I am now suffering the experience of my reckless folly. Were it possible to have an opportunity of living my past years over again agreeably to my wishes, I assure you, doctor, I would never make a second journey to Canada, nor go to Red River either; I would make England my home for ever. However, since I have undertaken this exodus, I hope I shall be able to complete it.'
"'It is my opinion,' said the doctor, 'that your physical constitution, inexperienced as it has been to a life like this, will not be able to stand the fatigues; and even after a month's rest, I dread the consequences, as the hardships yet to be endured are tenfold greater than those you have undergone.'
"'Then what shall I do, doctor? Must I live and die alone in this wilderness?' said I.
"'Under the present circumstances, I think,' said he, 'your resignation will be immediately accepted. If so remain here for the present under charge of your attendants. In the course of a week or so, a gang of Indians will pass here on their way to Thunder Bay for provisions. They can convey you a great portion of the way by canoe; thence you can effect your course back to Toronto, or to England if you choose, much easier indeed than going the remainder of the journey to Red River.'
"'Well doctor,' said I, 'I shall comply with your orders.'
"'Then I shall attend to the matter at once,' said the doctor, and immediately withdrew. In about an hour afterwards he returned, accompanied with several officers. The doctor's request was acquiesced with, and I received my discharge. The commander on leaving placed $30 in my hand, wishing me better health and a safe journey back to Toronto. No sooner had they left than I began to breathe more freely the air of liberty. I felt like a prisoner when liberated from his shackled bonds. I was no longer a mercenary. I was indeed exalted above the ranks,and felt myself once more as a man:—And wherefore, may I ask? Let my spirit echo the answer.
"The novelty and the romance of adventure had lost their charms. Military glory had faded under the stern reality of circumstances. Sickness had dimmed the ardor of my soul. Home-longings had clustered around my heart: and I then felt as it were for the time being a happiness in disappointment, and an independence in my liberty.
"My companions were indeed sorry to part with me: and before leaving presented me with many tokens of their affections. I felt the loneliness of a saddened heart when they were gone. The Indians were however kind, and faithful in their duties towards me. Under their care my health and vigor improved rapidly; so much so, that I felt sufficiently able to go with the returning Indians to Thunder Bay. I stood the travel much better than I anticipated. On the 27th day of August I arrived safely in this city, but much exhausted by the fatigues of the journey.
"Alas! thought I. What a change of prospects! What a revulsion in circumstances! I left here as a proud follower of Mars, clothed in scarlet and fine linen like the Kings of Babylon, and blowing up the tinsel'd bubble of military glory, amid the beating of drums, the blowing of trumpets, and the cheers of an excited populace. But alas! I returned in silence, as a simple man of experience, covered in sackcloth, exhausted in body, disappointed in mind, without friends, without a home, and with comparatively meagre funds. It was then that the last words of my dear father to me came rushing upon my soul, and adding sorrow to the feelings of my heart. Humiliating as my circumstances were, more deeply affecting to my mind was the ever-present remembrance of a dream which I dreamt on the night previous to my departure from Chipenega, the place where I remained during my illness. I dreamt that I was again residing in Montreal, that I had retired to my room for the night, and was projecting the design of going to the Rocky Mountains to dig for gold: and felt excited by the idea that when I had accumulated a million I would return to England a gentleman of fortune. But my night visions, like my day dreams, were doomed to vanish in disappointment: for at that moment when my soul was elated with the prospect, and my heart throbbing big with joy, I was startled by a light suddenly shining around me; and on looking about I beheld a woman entering the room and approaching where I lay. Her countenance, though pale, shone with a peculiar brightness. A long robe, white as the snow, hung loosely around her, and sandals were upon her feet. I was amazed at the appearance at first sight: but after a momentary gaze I recognized in her features the expression of my own mother.
"'Oh, mother! my dear mother!' I shouted as she approached, quickly raising myself up from my couch.
"'Frederick, my son Frederick,' she exclaimed taking hold of my hand in her own, and kissing me affectionately. 'I have come to take my farewell of you, my dear son, as I am ready to depart on a long journey and will not again see you on earth. Around my poor body your father, brother, sisters, and other relatives are at this very moment sobbing in tears, while in spirit I am here present with you. My time on earth is limited to seconds. My words are therefore few. My injunctions are these,—I hope you will comply with them. Repent of your wickedness and folly. Abstain from intoxicating liquors and evil company. Live a righteous life. Return at once to England, and seal those bonds of a life-union with Clara, whom you have unjustly wronged. Promise me, my son, to do these things and I shall depart in peace.'
"I was so overcome and bewildered at that moment that I could say nothing more than simply to whisper,—'Mother, I shall try to do so.' She then kissed me; bade me good-bye; and on wings of light instantly soared out of the room, leaving it in darkness again. I was so awfully impressed at this moment that I awoke suddenly. It appeared to me to be more of a waking reality than a dream. From that time until the present moment it has preyed heavily upon my feelings. Again and again have I tried to eradicate the impression, but every effort has only had a tendency to rivet it the more firmly to my mind, until it has at length assumed the aspect of a reality. I fear my apprehensions are too true; however I trust to Providence that my dream was nothing more than a baseless emanation of fancy. The evening after my arrival in Toronto from the Red River expedition I wrote a letter to my parents, and also one to a cousin of my own residing in London. I stated the circumstances which compelled me to return from the expedition; that the doctor had advised me to go back to England, as the Canadian climate was not suitable for my constitution; and that I purposed being in London to spend the Christmas holidays with my friends. Neither did I forget to mention the anxiety I felt about my child; nor did I neglect to express my intention of paying an affectionate compliment to its mother on my return. I desired my friends to reply immediately on receiving my letters. Nearly five weeks have elapsed since I wrote, but no answer has been received yet. I however expect something by the next English mail. I am living in suspense; a dreadful feeling indeed to endure. Had my health and means permitted, I would have gone directly to England on my return from the expedition. Instead thereof I sent the letters referred to, and having rested in this city a couple of weeks, I went down to Kingston to visit an old acquaintance who had emigrated thither a few years ago; but when I arrived there I discovered with disappointment that he had recently removed to the State of Minnesota. It was then, sir, that I had the pleasure of meeting with you. Your kindness and familiarity on that occasion, and also since, have been as medicine to my soul. I have considered you as a genial and sympathetic friend. I have told you the history of my past career. I trust to God that my future will be characterised with less unfortunate events, but with deeds more worthy of being told. I feel, and I know that I have been the author of my own wretchedness and folly. I have wasted my time, my money, and my energies in dissipation. I have feasted my conceited fancies upon glory as light and transient as the flying gossamer: and besides all this, I have done injustice to my parents—to my child—and to her who gave it birth. I have wronged her with cruel heart, a heart that has recoiled upon itself, and now stings its own affections in the madness of remorse. But worse than all, I have done injustice to my Maker. I have mocked at His mercy. I have insulted His dignity. I have trampled upon His laws.Oh! miserable wretch that I have been!However, I have resolved to live a better life. I trust to God that through His divine power I shall be enabled to abstain from intoxicating liquor and evil company."
"I intend returning to England in December next," continued Frederick, after a few moments silence. "Yesterday I met with a gentleman who formerly belonged to London, and with whom I was somewhat acquainted. He is now a resident of Hamilton, some 50 miles from here, and does a large business as an upholsterer. He offered me immediate employment, at $1.50 per day. I have engaged with him for two months, at the expiration of which time, if health permit, I will ship myself for England. So that no time may be lost I shall leave for Hamilton to-morrow morning, to be ready to commence work on Monday.
"Now, sir, as you intend remaining in Toronto for a week or two you will indeed favor me by calling at the Post-Office, especially when the next English Mail arrives, and any letters or newspapers addressed to me, please forward immediately."
I promised faithfully to do so:—and having thanked him for his favors I bade him good-bye for the present, expressing a wish that I would find him in a happier state of feelings at our next interview.
Having returned to the hotel at which I was staying I retired immediately to bed. I slept but little during the night, my fancy having been kept awake by the expressive interview of the preceding evening. The eventful narrative of Frederick Charlston's career was ever present to my mind, producing feelings akin to those of an experienced reality. But the most striking characteristic was the singular dream to which I have alluded. Dreams in general are nothing more than the echoes of the soul, or the breathings of imagination when the consciousness of the mind is in a latent state. Some dreams however, may be the productions of a spiritual agency photographing as it were through the electric telegraph of the soul the impressions of the real event upon the mind of the person who is absent, causing strange forebodings to loom up in the horizon of imagination. Be this as it may, it is a well known fact, that dreams have been occasionally verified. Thousands of them, however, are by the dreamer construed to suit circumstances. But the millions of these visions that arise nightly from the bed-chambers of the world are nothing more than the flickerings of the mind, at random, and like vapor, arising into the atmosphere of the soul, frequently assuming a variety of fantastic forms as a metamorphoses of preconceived ideas.
Immediately on hearing of the arrival of the English Mail I hurried down to the Post-Office, and inquired of the gentleman in attendance if there were anything for Frederick Charlston. Shuffling over a pile of letters he drew one out and handed it to me. It was mounted with deep mourning, and heavily sealed with black sealing wax. I was startled at the appearance thereof. I took but a momentary gaze and requested him to forward it by the next mail to Hamilton. I felt an anxious curiosity to know the contents of the Black-Sealed Letter. I felt certain that some of Frederick's relatives had recently died. The aspect of his dream more forcibly impressed itself upon my mind. But let a few days more pass away, and the mystery will be solved.
At the end of the second week after this occurrence I went up to Hamilton: and shortly after my arrival called upon the Upholsterer. He told me that Frederick had not been at the workshop during the past few days, owing to an attack of illness. He directed me to the hotel at which Frederick was boarding. I went there, and was by the innkeeper shown into a bedroom, in which he was reclining upon a couch reading a newspaper. On seeing me he sprang forward and grasped my hand affectionately in his own, and began sobbing aloud, the tears gushing from his eyes. For a few seconds I stood motionless in sad bewilderment of mind, feeling assured that something of a serious nature had occurred. At length I ventured to express a desire to know what had happened. He then drew from his pocket a letter, and handed it to me. I recognized it at once as the "Black-Sealed-Letter." I opened it with trembling hand, and read as follows: