God struck the heavens' holy Harp,While sang the grand celestial choir.Earth heard the awful sound, and sawThe trembling of the golden wire.'Twas thunder to the stranger ear,And to the eye the lightning's fire.
God struck the heavens' holy Harp,While sang the grand celestial choir.Earth heard the awful sound, and sawThe trembling of the golden wire.'Twas thunder to the stranger ear,And to the eye the lightning's fire.
'O Heaven! were manBut constant, he were perfect; that one errorFills him with faults, makes him run through all sins.'Two Gentlemen of Verona
'O Heaven! were manBut constant, he were perfect; that one errorFills him with faults, makes him run through all sins.'
Two Gentlemen of Verona
Are they truly dying,All the summer leaves?Will the blasts of autumnStrip the happy trees?Bright the glowing foliagePaints the misty air—Crimson, purple, golden—Must they die—so fair?Where has flown the sunshineWooed them to their birth,Tempting them to flutterFar above the earth?Ruthless did it leave themIn their hour of bloom,Let the chill blasts whisperTales of death and doom?Rapidly they robed themIn each varied hue,Hoping thus the sunshineTo attract anew;But the fickle glitterLooked in anger down,Freezing up the life-pulseWith an icy frown.Then the happy radianceSinks to rise no more;Leaves of gold and crimsonStrew earth's gloomy floor.Gone their summer glory,Lifeless, lost, they lie;Wilted, withered, driftingAs winds will, they fly.Thus in woman's bosomLove wakes bud and bloom,'Neath his glowing sunshineThinking not of doom;Covering soft life's desertSpread the branches green,Hope's bright birds sing through them—Close the leafy screen.Through the quivering foliageFalls a sudden fear!Leaves are rustling, trembling—Feelchangedrawing near!Brighter then they robe them,Call on every hue,Color every fibre—Love to win anew.Summon gold and crimson,Bright as dyed in blood;Hectic fever flushesPour in anguished flood!Gone the healthful quietOf the summer green;Hope-birds turn to ravens,Sighs the leafy screen.Love looks down in angerOn the wildering show;Freezing follows change-frost—Love heaps ice and snow!Then the fevered radianceFades from life's doomed tree;Wilted, withered, drifting,Bud, bloom, leaves we see.Love looks down upon them,Wonders how it came—Thinks through all his changingThey should bloom the same:Did not know his change-frostHad the power to kill;Did not deem his frowningLife's quick pulse could still!Gone the fickle sunshine!Gone the rosy hours!Gone love's early wooing!Gone the healthful powers!Come and cool the hectic,Chill the fevered glow,Pale the crimson flushing,Death, beneath thy snow!
Are they truly dying,All the summer leaves?Will the blasts of autumnStrip the happy trees?Bright the glowing foliagePaints the misty air—Crimson, purple, golden—Must they die—so fair?
Where has flown the sunshineWooed them to their birth,Tempting them to flutterFar above the earth?Ruthless did it leave themIn their hour of bloom,Let the chill blasts whisperTales of death and doom?
Rapidly they robed themIn each varied hue,Hoping thus the sunshineTo attract anew;But the fickle glitterLooked in anger down,Freezing up the life-pulseWith an icy frown.
Then the happy radianceSinks to rise no more;Leaves of gold and crimsonStrew earth's gloomy floor.Gone their summer glory,Lifeless, lost, they lie;Wilted, withered, driftingAs winds will, they fly.
Thus in woman's bosomLove wakes bud and bloom,'Neath his glowing sunshineThinking not of doom;Covering soft life's desertSpread the branches green,Hope's bright birds sing through them—Close the leafy screen.
Through the quivering foliageFalls a sudden fear!Leaves are rustling, trembling—Feelchangedrawing near!Brighter then they robe them,Call on every hue,Color every fibre—Love to win anew.
Summon gold and crimson,Bright as dyed in blood;Hectic fever flushesPour in anguished flood!Gone the healthful quietOf the summer green;Hope-birds turn to ravens,Sighs the leafy screen.
Love looks down in angerOn the wildering show;Freezing follows change-frost—Love heaps ice and snow!Then the fevered radianceFades from life's doomed tree;Wilted, withered, drifting,Bud, bloom, leaves we see.
Love looks down upon them,Wonders how it came—Thinks through all his changingThey should bloom the same:Did not know his change-frostHad the power to kill;Did not deem his frowningLife's quick pulse could still!
Gone the fickle sunshine!Gone the rosy hours!Gone love's early wooing!Gone the healthful powers!Come and cool the hectic,Chill the fevered glow,Pale the crimson flushing,Death, beneath thy snow!
A journey by stage coach in these days, when railroads are fast penetrating to the remotest corners of our country, has already become a somewhat novel experience. In the course of comparatively few years, even the 'air line' will have given place to an international railway, connecting us immediately with New Brunswick, and the stage coaches of this region will be among the reminiscences of the past.
The circumstances under which this journey of mine was performed were most painful. Still, through that remarkable power of the human mind, which seems to act independently of volition, that mysterious duality of being which observes, discriminates, and remembers, while at the same time preoccupied by an overwhelming grief, I was enabled to note each little incident with more than usual intensity.
Was it that they stood out in bolder, more sharply cut relief, because of the dark background of emotion behind?
There had been little, if any, snow on the island all the winter, and the morning of the 26th of January was bright and mild as April. Indeed, it was difficult to imagine it winter.
'Come, Fred,' said I to my second little boy, 'We must take a walk to the batteries this fine morning.'
As I stood upon the height, while the little fellow frisked about among the rocks, I stretched my eyes westward toward the hills and forests of the mainland, and thought of my father and mother, and of the letter which I almost knew was on its way to me then. Ah! little did I dream that at that very moment the gaunt sentinels of the telegraph were tossing from one to another, with lightning speed, a message of woe for me. Its long journey of four hundred miles was accomplished in less time than my short walk. I had just returned when it arrived.
I saw by my husband's countenance as he read it, and by his extreme tenderness of manner toward me, that a great misfortune had befallen me. I sank down on the floor beside him, trembling with apprehension, yet longing to know the worst. 'Is it mother?' I gasped. He handed me the telegram, which was directed to him:
'Your father-in-law died this morning. Can Elsie come to the funeral? If so, what day? Telegraph immediately.'
And this was all. My father wasdead! How long he had been ill, or what was his disease, I knew not. 'Why did they not send for me sooner, that I might have seen him alive once more?' I asked, in the first unreasoning agony of grief. But he wasdead. All I could do for him now was to yield him my last tribute of reverence and affection.
'Can Elsie come to the funeral?' Yes, I could go. It was all I could do for my father now; I knew that. My family would be well cared for in my absence. My husband did not oppose me, though he could not approve. But he exerted himself in every way to further my plans.
There were difficulties at the outset. The regular morning stage had already left. The 'air line,' as it is called, was the only route remaining to me. Now this 'air line' started from a point thirty miles north of us, and lay through ninety miles of wilderness. I had heard of it before I ever came to the island, and had been told a wild story about a stage coach having been chased by a pack of wolves for several miles on this route a few years before. The innkeeper, too, spoke very dubiously about it to my husband. But what were the hundred and twenty miles between me and the cars—the four hundred between me and my father,then! Should these few miles of earth detain me? No! It was possible for me to go, and go I must.
My preparations were soon made; but I found, to my dismay, on applying for a passage in the stage to C——(where the journey proper would begin) that all the seats were taken. The innkeeper sent me word, however, that he would furnish me a private conveyance, if Imustgo. So at two o'clock,p.m., an open, low-backed buggy appeared at my gate. I kissed my little ones, who gathered wonderingly around to 'see mamma go away,' and wrapping my old plaided cloak about me (the cloak I wore when a child), I seated myself beside the buffalo-bundled driver, and was soon whirling out of town.
The air was soft and mild, and no snow was to be seen except a little here and there by the roadside as we advanced northward. The sky had become overcast, and showed signs of an approaching storm. The scenery was generally bare and uninteresting. We followed the St. Croix river in its course. Opposite St. Andrews it widens into a broad bay. It was then near sunset, and the clouds broke away a little and gave a cheery, rosy flush to the calm water.
Night soon settled down upon us. It was dark when we arrived at the —— Hotel, after a drive of five hours. I had never been in C——, and this was my first experience in hotel life alone.
I was ushered into a large, lonesome room, in total darkness except for the light from the hall burner, which streamed dismally into its depths. A tall, black shadow soon announced himself as the landlord, to whom I made known my wants. His wife, a kind-hearted, energetic woman, took compassion on me, and showed me into her own private parlor to get warmed, for I was very chilly. Here the good lady's curiosity was piqued somewhat to find that the young man who accompanied me wasnotmy husband, and that I proposed to go on the next morning to Bangor alone. I shuddered when she told me the journey was usually made in an open conveyance. Think of riding all day and all night on a board slung across an open wagon! And what if it shouldrain!
I bethought myself of two friends of mine who were visiting in C——, and to them I despatched my cards. After tea, when I was seated quietly in my room, Aunt Carter came. She is one of those good, kind souls who are always aunts to everybody. She came to me with hearty sympathy. The evening passed pleasantly away, for her simple words of faith and hope cheered and consoled me.
I slept but little that night. I lay thinking of my father, and of the morrow's journey, and listening to every sound. I fancied I heard it raining. At last I was almost sure of it. When I peeped out of the window in the gray of the dawn, the ground was white, and it was snowing fast.
Soon after breakfast my kind friends appeared, and the good clergyman also, who went down to make some inquiries about the stage coach for me, and, returning soon, announced with a very grave countenance that it had not connected with the cars at Bangor for nearly a week. In fact, that it was unusual for it to do so at this season.
'It seems to have set in for a storm,' said he. 'All our storms this winter have terminated in rain. There is a uniformity in storms,' he added, lugubriously, 'and if this should turn to rain, you cannot possibly get through.'
For a few moments my purpose was shaken. If I did not succeed in reaching the cars the next morning, I would be too late for my father's funeral, and my journey would be all but in vain. There was my mother, to be sure, but my whole heart turned to my father now. Could I, ought I to run this risk?
But, on the other hand, how could I relinquish my object when thus far on the way to it?
Blessings on Aunt Carter! She came to the rescue.
'Now,' said she, 'I have found that a good Providence always took care of me, andIbelieve He will take care of you. You've begun your journey and got thus far safely, andIbelieve you'll get through to Bangor in time. At any rate, if you don't, you will have the satisfaction of comforting your mother. I've been about the world considerable,' she continued, 'and I've always found amanto take care of me. Now you shall havemy manto take care of you.'
Reassured by her hopeful words, I exclaimed:
'Enough, I will go! If there be any power in will, or any speed in horses, I will get there!'
The minister sighed, but I commenced putting on my cloak. Just then, the young man who had driven me up from the island the day before, came to take my parting commands.
'Tell Mr. K.,' said I, 'that I start under favorable auspices. Is any one going through?'
'Two passengers, but no ladies,' he replied.
'Who are they?' I inquired.
'They are both strangers, from the 'other side''—(the Maine cognomen for the neighboring British provinces).
'What do they look like?'
'Well, theylooklike gentlemen, and wehopethey are so,' he replied, with dubious emphasis.
And these were my favorable auspices! A doubtful snowstorm and two doubtful gentlemen! Nevertheless I spoke the truth.
At length I was all ready, and the landlady, who was quite interested in me by that time, took me once more into her parlor with my friends, while waiting for the stage. Again the thought of my travelling companions occurred to me. I inquired if the landlady knew aught of them.
'Nothing but their names,' said she. 'Neither of them was ever here before. They look a little rough, but you cannot always tell about these province people, they dress so differently from our folks. I dare say they are real gentlemen.'
It was decided, with the concurrence of my friends, to request an introduction to one of them through the landlord, as I was travelling alone, and might need some aid. If they were as it was 'hoped,' this would be an advantage; and if they were not, the formality might be some protection.
I confess I was not strongly prepossessed in their favor when I confronted them at the door of the hotel; the one a short, fat figure in a coarse blue coat, with a hood of the same, lined with scarlet; a flat cloth cap, and long heavy boots, reaching above the knee. An ugly red-and-green woollen scarf tied around the waist enhanced the oddity of his appearance. The other was taller and more slenderly built. His complexion was decidedly 'sandy,' with short, curling hair and a prodigious mustache. His countenance, like his dress, was grave, the latter being an iron-gray travelling suit.
With a low bow the landlord presented me to the former. It was a kindly voice that said, 'Excuse my mitten,' as, instinctively drawing off my own, my hand rested a moment in his big, shaggy palm. There was good-nature in the face too, from the roguish dark eyes to the genial, laughter-loving mouth.
I trembled, though, as, bidding farewell to my friends, I stepped into the coach.
'Take good care of this lady, driver,' said Aunt Carter, 'for she's a precious charge.'
My good friend the clergyman was the last one to bid me good-by. He reached into the coach and shook handswith me, wishing me a prosperous journey.
At last we were off. The snow fell thick and fast and moist. What if it should turn to rain? But it was not cold, and I at least was uncomfortably warm, for my kind friends had provided me with a well-heated plank for my feet, and a brick for my hands. It was heavy sleighing, and we dragged along at the rate of four miles an hour for the first twelve or fifteen miles. Occasionally the object of my journey and the novelty of my situation would come over me like a dream; but I resolutely buried my grief away down in my heart, and lived on the surface.
I entered into conversation with my travelling companions, whom I scrutinized narrowly.
We had not gone very far before the Englishman unbuttoned his overcoat and produced what is technically called a 'pocket pistol.' It was a flat flask of generous proportions, encased in leather, fitting into a silver drinking cup below, and with a stopper of the same screwing on the top. At any rate, however questionable its contents might be, its appearance outwardly was highly respectable.
'By your permission, madam,' said he, pouring a portion into the cup.
'Certainly,' said I, significantly, 'within reasonable limits.'
'Of course,' said he, pleasantly, as he offered it to the other gentleman, since I declined it. I learned to bless them both, and the brandy flask into the bargain, before I got to the end of my journey. But I will not anticipate.
They were intelligent and well-educated. Occasionally the conversation took a solemn and earnest tone. We touched on many topics. We discussed the Queen and royal family; the Prince of Wales; his visit to this country; his intended marriage, &c.; the prospect of Prince Alfred becoming King of Greece; the condition of these United States; the rebellion, &c., &c.
I was sorry to find that the young Englishman was strongly tinctured with the prejudices now so prevalent in the provinces against emancipation. He frankly acknowledged that at the time of the 'Trent affair' his sympathies turned toward the South, but that since he had read more and thought more on the subject, he had become decidedly in favor of the North.
The other gentleman was a Scotchman, born and brought up near Gretna Green. His recollections of the renowned blacksmith and the runaway couples he had often seen riding posthaste to the smithy, with pursuers close behind perhaps, were very interesting. He was recently from New Orleans, where he had resided for several years. He was there through the blockade, and served in the city troops several months, though, being a foreigner, he could not be impressed into the regular army on either side. He was reserved, of course, concerning his opinions, but it was easy to see that he regarded General Butler, whom I lauded highly, with no friendly eye.
At one o'clock we stopped at a dingy little cottage to dine. Here the Englishman took me under his special charge, assisting me into the house, while the Scotchman followed after with my plank and brick, which were duly set up before the blazing open fire to warm for the next stage. Here I first saw the Frenchman, who had ridden outside in order to enjoy his pipe. He was sitting by the fire wringing the moisture from his long black hair, and wondering if he could get any 'rum.' On seeing the lady he courteously made way, and, after, laying aside my wrappings, I seated myself before the fire, while waiting for dinner. It was a dim little room, uncarpeted, and poorly furnished with a looking glass, a map, and a few wooden chairs, and ornamented by a 'mourning piece,' which hung over the mantel, representing a bareheaded lady with a handkerchief at her eyes, standing beside a monument under a weeping willow.
But the open fire was a sight worth seeing in those days. How it roared and blazed and crackled and hissed and diffused its hospitable warmth and ruddy glow all over the little brown room! How cheerfully it contrasted with the storm without!
Dinner was soon announced, and as Mr. K.'s last injunction had been to 'be sure to eat, whether I wished to or not,' I prepared to pass through the first ordeal of eating against my inclination. There was little to excite appetite. The room was browner and dimmer than the one we had just left; the table was spread with a coarse brown cloth; the bread was brown, not honest 'rye and Indian,' but tawny-colored wheat, and sour at that; the thick uncomely slices of corned beef were brown too, and the dishes and plates were all brown. The Englishman looked despondingly on the repast, and ventured to inquire if the landlady, a quiet body in a brown dress, had any eggs.
'Yes,' she replied, with a strong nasal twang, 'but they ain't very fresh. I shud be 'fraid to resk b'ilin' 'em. I could fry some, ef yer liked.'
'It's of no consequence, madam,' said the Englishman; but the good woman, bent on being accommodating, and observing, ''Twouldn't take but a minute to do 'em,' disappeared into the kitchen, and returned in an incredibly short space of time with a plate of eggs swimming in grease. I did the best I could to obey my husband's orders, but with poor success.
We were soon on our way again. At every solitary house along the road we stopped to leave a mailbag. Whom could the letters be for? we wondered.
At one place a pretty girl ran out bareheaded through the snow to take the mail. She was neatly dressed, and wore a pretty, bright-colored 'Sontag' over her shoulders, but she spoiled her good looks by chewing vigorously a mouthful of spruce gum, a custom which prevails in this region, probably borrowed from the Indians.
Here we met the 'return stage' from Bangor—a rough, uncovered sleigh. There were two or three province men in it, whom the Englishman recognized.
'I say,' cried he, 'if you see any of my people, tell them you saw me about three days out from Bangor.'
We passed on, and met nothing more the rest of the journey. The snow shut off the distant views from us, but, clinging to every twig and rock and stump, gave a fairy-like beauty to the otherwise dreary scene. The alder bushes were particularly beautiful, filled as they were with balls of snow, resembling large bunches of white flowers.
The forest was mostly small second growth. Much of the country was partially cleared, and long logs lay by the roadside, some of which we were several minutes in passing. The stumps had been left three or four feet high. These, blackened by fire or storms, and crowned with snow, inclined their square heads forward, as if seeking to catch a glimpse of us as we passed.
The way grew more lonesome and dreary every mile, and the snow more fine and moist. Would it turn to rain? There were no bells on the horses, and the driver, a surly, silent fellow, had not even an encouraging 'chirrup' for them, while the muffled crunching of the soft snow by the runners seemed to have a somnolent influence upon them, judging from our progress. Occasionally the gentlemen would get out and run up the hills, and once the Englishman fell full length, and jumped in again, his blue coat and peaked hood well frosted with snow, looking, were it not for his youthful face, the very impersonation of Santa Claus. He had a powerful physique, and was full of vitality. These runs in the snow seemed to refresh him greatly, while they exhausted the more delicate Scotchman.
In vain we looked for the wolves. We half wished they might appear, that the horses might quicken their paces. Not a sign of life was anywhere to be seen, except one flock of snow-birds on the top of a hill.
Conversation still went on, but the intervals of silence were longer and more frequent, and the burden of my sudden grief would press upon me heavily at times. My anxiety and excitement, too, lest I should not make the connection with the cars, increased as the day advanced. At last the monotonous motion of the stage coach, added to the agitated state of my nerves, began to affect me like the rolling of the sea. The trees of the forest seemed to waltz around me in mazy circles. Faster and faster they whirled, till my sight grew dim and I could scarcely distinguish them at all. My senses were winding up. I felt them slipping from me in spite of the strongest effort of my will to hold them. A confused sound filled my ears; my strength failed me; I drooped heavily; but Aunt Carter's 'man' was by me, sure enough. His protecting arm supported me, and his calm and steady voice penetrated even my deadened hearing, as he asked my permission to apply some snow to my forehead. I uttered an almost inarticulate assent. There was one blank moment, and then the refreshing coolness on my brow and on my hands revived me. I apologized for the trouble I had given. 'We all have mothers and sisters,' he replied, quietly, as he poured a draught from his travelling flask for me. My distrust of him and his 'pocket pistol,' too, had vanished.
The Scotchman also was unwearied in his attention to my comfort. Did the snow blow in upon me? He would lower the curtain. Did I wish more air? he would raise it again. Were my feet becoming chilled? He would tuck in the buffalo. Between the two I fared certainly as comfortably as circumstances would permit.
The weather was still mild, though colder than before. As the day wore on, the wind began to rise, and I observed frequent eddies and whirlwinds of snow and ominous grooves around every wayside stone. Would the storm increase and drift? In that case my chance of getting to Bangor in time was doubtful enough.
We reached our next stopping place at half past four,p.m.It was a weather-stained house, which we must have entered by the back door, for we passed into the kitchen at once, where were a stout, pleasant-faced woman, with two stout, pleasant-faced daughters, and a big fat yellow dog, who sat up in a chair beside them at the window, as though he were indeed a part of the family. We were ushered into a small room beyond, which rejoiced in another glorious wood fire, before which the Englishman duly planted me, and the Scotchman my plank and brick. Over the mantel was another version of the sepulchral monument with the weeping woman and willow, in whimsical contrast with the jolly, rollicking fire beneath, which gave us such a hearty welcome.
As we sat luxuriating in the warmth, the two fat girls in the kitchen began to vocalize with low sweet voices that harmonized pleasantly, 'Do, re, mi, si, la, si, do.' Evidently there had been a singing school in the neighborhood. Presently they struck into 'Marching Along,' which they sang with considerable spirit.
In the mean time, an overgrown youth, apparently belonging to the house, who sat in one corner, tilting his chair, said, addressing all of us at once, 'Wal, you've got the wust half the road before yer now. Thur's a hill a mile an' a half long, jest out here a little ways. You'll have to break yer own roads, I reckon; there's nothin' else goin' along to-day. Storm's gittin' wuss.'
We looked dubiously at each other, and he, probably observing my anxious countenance, endeavored to reassure usby saying, in an uncertain tone, 'But Iraytherguess you'll git through.'
We were soon off again on the next stage, which was to be twenty-four miles, without any stopping-place or village between. We ascended many hills, in fact there seemed to be no going down to any of them; but when the horses came to a dead halt, and the coach began to slip backward, and the driver called out, 'I guess, gentlemen, you'll hev to git out here for a spell,' we knew we had come to the hill 'a mile an' a half long.' I kept my place, for my weight was too inconsiderable to make much difference. The Englishman, taking hold of the coach, helped the horses to start again with a vigorous push, and then the three passengers went plunging through the snow till the driver stopped and took them in again, quite out of breath.
We were now in the depths of the forest, many miles from any house. Occasionally we passed a deserted lumberman's hut by the wayside, and discussed the liability of a breakdown or an overturn in that wild region.
The white-headed, square-faced stumps which abounded in the partially cleared tracts, peered in upon us for mile after mile with haunting repetition.
The trees were heavily laden with snow, which they shook down upon us as we brushed along beneath their low-bending branches. In the dim twilight they assumed every variety of fanciful form. There were gaunt old trees, with gnarled and twisted branches, outstretched like arms in deadly Laocoon-like struggle with the writhing winds and storms; there were delicate birches, each slender twig bearing its feathery burden; and there were spruces and hemlocks, regal in snowy splendor. It lay upon them in heavy masses, and gave their bending boughs a still more graceful dip. There was something which harmonized with my grief in the silent snow and the drooping trees. They sank beneath the snow as the human heart sinks beneath its burden of sorrow. Yet it fell gently and beautifully upon them, as affliction falls from the hand of our Father, 'who chasteneth whom he loveth.' One tree, which bent completely over in a perfect abandonment of grief, particularly impressed me. There was something in the sweep of the branches which suggested the utter prostration of the heart beneath the first shock of a great affliction.
How still it was! It was not dark, for the moon had risen, and the clouds were thin. The snow, too, made it lighter.
It was at this solemn, awe-inspiring hour that my companions first learned the object of my journey. The sympathy with which they met me did honor to human nature.
'I thought,' said the Englishman, 'that the urgency of my own journey was great, but it is nothing compared to yours.'
He apologized for any light or careless conversation in which they had indulged, not knowing the circumstances of my journey, and entered fully into the sentiment which had prompted me to undertake it. He assured me that he would see that I got through in time for the cars the next morning, and begged me to feel no further uneasiness about it.
From that moment, both my companions were more assiduously devoted to my comfort than ever. Their interest was increased on finding that my father was the son of a well-known inventor.
His history was soon told. He had inherited his father's business (now passed out of the family) with something of his mechanical talent. Of a confiding disposition, he had been wronged by those whom he had intrusted most extensively, and, property gone and strength failing, his misfortunes, which he had at all times borne with exemplary patience and fortitude, had culminated in the loss of his oldhome, the home of his father before him, by the hand of the incendiary. He had left me a precious legacy in his memory, to which my present journey was an inadequate tribute.
The hours wore on. It did not grow much darker, but oh, it was so still! You could hear the stillness when the coach stopped, as occasionally it did.
It was there, in the depths of this remote wilderness, that our subdued voices mingled in those grand old chorals which belong to the church universal, and in which, Methodist, Presbyterian, and Unitarian as we were, we could all heartily join: 'Old Hundred,' so full of worship; 'Dundee,' with its plaintive melody; and 'America,' breathing the soul of loyalty, whether sung to 'God save the Queen,' or 'Our country, 'tis of thee.'
My voice was feeble, and soon gave out. I had come near fainting repeatedly, and had only been resuscitated by the snow and the Englishman's brandy. I was now nearly exhausted.
'You had better make use of my shoulder as a pillow,' he said, perceiving my condition.
'You had better, by all means,' chimed in the Scotchman.
I hesitated a moment. What would Mrs. Grundy say—and my husband? I was too tired to care for the former, and the latter, I knew, would be only grateful to my compassionate friends.
'Circumstances must dispense with ceremony,' I observed, suiting the action to the word.
'Madam,' rejoined the Englishman, with warmth, 'I hope you will find, before you get to the end of your journey, that you are in honorable company.'
'I have found it out already,' I murmured, and then, committing myself to the care and keeping of the Good Father, my last shadow of distrust vanished.
I was too weary to hold my eyelids open, and too much excited to sleep. At length I was aroused by a sudden stop. The 'whippletree' had broken. In a few minutes we proceeded, the 'leader' being still driven loosely, as before.
Again we came to a pause—this time to water the horses at a wayside spring. While the others were refreshing themselves, the 'leader' quietly walked off, to the great indignation of the driver, who began to swear as he chased him through the snow. He was captured at last, and we continued on our way.
The poor Frenchman had by this time become so chilled that he was glad to come inside, though by so doing he felt obliged to give up the luxury of his pipe.
All at once the striking difference in our nationalities occurred to me, and I exclaimed, on the impulse of the moment:
'See, do we not represent the four leading nations of the earth—England, France, Scotland, and America?'
'Yes,' replied the Englishman, with some hesitation in his manner; 'England is surely one of the leading nations; so is France;'—(here the Frenchman broke in with some inarticulate jargon to the glory of France)—'but Scotland—I don't know about that being a 'leading nation.''
This roused the Scotchman. 'Scotlandhasbeen a glorious nation! She has proud memories for her sons!' he cried, with a fire of enthusiasm, not without pathos, in its unavoidable admission that the glory of his country as an individual power in the world was past.
'That is right,' said I, admiring his sudden warmth; 'cling to your own country before all others, come what may.'
The Englishman then reverted to the present lamentable condition of these United States, and with characteristic complacency pointed to the stability and grandeur of his own Government.
It was in vain that I spoke of the future of our country, and represented our present troubles to be, as I firmly believe, the means of our regenerationinto a nobler and truer national existence. His English prejudices were not to be shaken. England was, and would remainthe leadingnation of the earth.
How much longer the discussion would have continued I know not, had we not caught sight of lights, and driven up to a more pretentious mansion than we had yet seen on our way.
Scarcely able to stand, I alighted, and the landlord, seeing the lady, ushered us into the parlor, which showed signs of approaching civilization in the large-figured Kiddermister carpet and the 'air-tight' stove.
A fine-looking young man, whom they called 'Doctor,' in a gray suit with deep fur cuffs, sat at a table, looking over a volume of house plans with a pretty young lady. Apparently the occupation had been of absorbing interest, for the fire was nearly out, and the room was quite cold, and the look with which they greeted our entrance betokened surprise rather than pleasure.
The Englishman made himself at home, and, not waiting to call a servant, procured three or four sticks of wood from some unknown quarter, and began piling them into the stove. They burned feebly, for the fire was very low indeed, and I still shivered; so, catching up the rocking chair, he ran off with it into the other room.
'There's a good open fire out here,' said he; 'it doesn't look quite as tidy, perhaps, but I guess you'll get warm.'
That was the main thing, to be sure; so I followed on. Here the fire was not so good as it might have been, but by dint of a little bluster, a quantity of 'light-stuff' and more solid fuel was soon forthcoming, and we shortly had a blaze almost strong enough to set the chimney and my inevitable plank on fire. Here we wound our watches. After a little delay supper was announced—fried beefsteaks, potatoes, and doughnuts.
This was the place where we were to exchange drivers, and where a delay of several hours frequently occurred.
When we were about half through supper, which my travelling companions discussed with enviable zeal, a short, stoutly built, sharp-visaged man appeared in the doorway, and cried out, 'All ready!'
'Well, I'm not,' said the Englishman, looking up good-humoredly. With a muttered threat about going on and leaving us, the new driver turned away, and we thought the prospect of getting to Bangor in time had decidedly improved. Still, there were more than forty miles between.
'I will take one of your doughnuts, madam,' said I, putting it into my pocket, for I had been able to eat but little.
'Certainly,' said the landlady; 'take as many as you wish.'
There was something in her kindly tone that did me good. It cheered and helped me more than she could know.
We were to pay our passage here to the returning driver. I had secured a 'through ticket' at C——, but my companions, having only English gold with them, had not done so, having been assured by this same man that they could just as well pay at Bangor, where they would obtain a higher premium on their money. Now, however, he demanded his pay, and at first was not disposed to allow any premium for the gold. This, of course, excited their indignation, and some high words passed. However, the matter was compromised by the driver giving them twenty per cent., when gold was at that moment worth fifty at Bangor.
I had stolen from the room, and was hastily putting on my numerous wrappings, when the Englishman came to me with what he called a 'dose, which he thought would do me good.'
I took part of it, and then hesitated, for it contained strong reminiscences of the 'pocket pistol.'
'Would you really advise me to take the rest?' said I gravely.
'I certainly would,' he replied, withconclusive solemnity. So I took it, and I think it did 'do me good.'
'This is a hard journey for you,' said the landlady, compassionately regarding my diminutive stature and frail aspect.
The driver was very impatient. She half apologized for him, saying, 'He is very anxious to get through to-night. He doesn't like to go through in the night always, for there are many dangerous places along the road; but it is sleighing to-night, and not very dark, so he thinks he can do very well.'
The urgency of my case, which the Englishman had represented to him, with what other inducements I can only imagine, occasioned his unwonted haste.
When we entered the coach once more for the long night ride, one of the buffaloes was missing.
'It's over to the other stable,' said the driver, carelessly; 'twas left over there by mistake. You shall have it when we get there.'
You would have thought, from his manner of speaking, that the 'other stable' was just across the road, instead of being twenty miles away. As we drove away, I observed, 'I have a doughnut in my pocket; the first one hungry shall have it.'
The curtains were now buttoned closely down for the first time, and we were in total darkness. We rode in silence for some time, each resolutely trying to go to sleep. The Frenchman succeeded best. He had served as a soldier on the Continent, and was evidently accustomed to hardship. He slept as soundly as though he were on a down bed, instead of riding backward in a stage coach.
Again insensibility threatened me. I could not speak, but my labored breathing aroused my companions just in time to save me from entire unconsciousness. The faithful Scotchman had raised the curtain, and the air rushed in freshly upon me. It was very chilly, and much colder than it had been. It had ceased snowing, and the moon was shining feebly through the breaking clouds. We were going at a goodly rate of speed. By and by I thought of my doughnut, and inquired who was hungry. The Scotchman was not; the Englishman was not; the Frenchman still slept.
'Give it to me, if you please,' said the Englishman, a sudden idea seeming to strike him.
'Here,' said he, making a thrust at the Frenchman; 'wake up! here's a doughnut for you.' The old soldier muttered something drowsily. He was not hungry. 'Won't you take it for the lady?' said the former, with a dash of sentiment.
'I only eat for the satisfacti-on of mine appétit!' he exclaimed, sulkily, settling himself back again to sleep.
The night wore on, interrupted only by frequent stoppages, when the driver dismounted to apply the 'drags' in going down the hills. Before this, we had seemed to be going up all the hills; now there seemed to be a continual descent.
I was too weary to sleep. Let me change my position as I might, I could not be comfortable. My mind was constantly busy, and, since outward objects could no longer engage my attention, I could no longer escape my thoughts. At one time I would think of my husband and my five little ones at home, all sleeping quietly in their beds. I wondered if they had all said their prayers to their father, and if he had tucked them all up warmly. Then I would think of my mother. Was she expecting me? I wondered. My poor mother! what a sad meeting that would be! And then my dead father would come to mind. How sad, how strange it would seem, to receive no warm greeting from him!
It was about two o'clock in the morning, when we stopped for our last change of horses. The house stood black and sombre as a tomb in the dim moonlight. The family had evidentlyretired to rest. At length we were admitted into a dimly lighted room, where a table was spread with substantial food. The old gentleman, whose slumbers we had so ruthlessly disturbed, fumbled among a pile of letters and papers, which he distributed in three monstrous mailbags, that flapped about on the floor like so many whales out of water. His toilet had evidently been hastily made, and he shuffled the letters and papers about with the manner of a person half asleep. His hair, which was white and very abundant, stood erect all over his head, and contrasted queerly with his nut-brown face, which was strongly marked and deeply wrinkled.
We were all sleepy and stupid enough by this time, and, had the Scotchman been a less chivalrous knight than he had proved himself, I doubt not he would have experienced some satisfaction in placing my plank and brick before the fire to heat for the last time.
We were none of us hungry but the sharp-visaged driver, who devoured his supper, or breakfast, whichever it might be called, with the air of a man who was determined to get through to Bangor before morning.
The Frenchman, who had been completely cowed down by the old gentleman's indignant 'No,sir!we don't keep no sich stuff abaout these premises!' in reply to his demand for 'rum,' meekly took refuge in a cup of coffee.
In the mean time a baby in the adjoining room, awakened by our movements, began to cry. It was quite a young cry. It could not be more than three or four months old, I thought, as I compared it mentally with the efforts of my own youngest in that direction. But the baby shoe which hung by the fireplace betokened an older child. It must have been the old gentleman's grandchild. I pitied its mother, for it might lie awake until morning.
Once more our resolute driver, with an authoritative 'All ready!' summoned us to depart.
'Amaziah, bring the light around here!' cried the Englishman, who seemed to know the names of every one at these stopping places by a sort of intuition.
'Amaziah' promptly obeyed, and by the aid of his lantern I settled myself for the last stage of my journey. To the Scotchman's comfort, the missing buffalo was produced here, according to the driver's promise.
The Frenchman, who had been over the 'line' before, had hinted that four gray horses were to take us into Bangor; but it seemed to be the fate of three only.
It was then not far from three o'clock, and we had more than twenty miles before us. As the distance lessened, my excitement increased. I became so feverish that I could no longer bear my mittens on my hands. Anxiety and fatigue produced a nervous exhaustion, and the harsh grating of the 'drags' as we descended the oft-recurring hills, threw me into an uncontrollable tremor. I was too tired to sleep—too tired, almost, to think. Strength, sense, hope seemed to lose themselves in my utter weariness. It seemed at times to become a question whether I should even live to reach my destination.
My companions cheered and comforted me as best they could, with never-to-be-forgotten kindness. We stopped once to throw out a mailbag, and I thought, from the appearance of the place as well as I could see it, that we were already on the outskirts of Bangor.
'What place is this?' the Englishman inquired.
'Eddington Bend,' replied the driver.
'How far from Bangor?'
'Sixteen miles.'
Toward dawn we all lost ourselves for a few minutes. I first aroused, and, through the interstices beside the curtains, perceived the gray light of morning. It was six o'clock, and we were but four miles from Bangor, the driver informed us.
Only four miles! but how long they seemed! The cars left at half past seven o'clock, and the daylight was fast advancing.
'Shall we after all get there in time?' said I.
'Not in time for breakfast, I imagine,' replied the Englishman, resignedly.
At last came the welcome announcement, 'Bangor! There is Bangor!'
'Where is it? I do not see it,' said I, looking eagerly out into the gray morning mist.
'Why, there, to be sure! Don't you see that steeple? There's another! and there's another!'
Yes, surely there was Bangor at last, welcome to me as ever the Holy City to the penance-worn pilgrim.
In my gratitude, I overflowed with benignity to all the world, and even granted the poor Frenchman permission to enjoy his pipe, a privilege of which he made haste to avail himself. It was an ill-timed charity, to be sure, but I could well afford to submit to the temporary discomfort in the fulness of my satisfaction.
The driver hastened the horses. With ever-increasing speed we passed the lowly cottages in the suburbs, where people were getting up and preparing breakfast by candle light, and at last the 'three grays' cantered triumphantly to the —— Hotel—in time for breakfast, too!
There was not a moment to spare, however, and so, without waiting even to make my toilet, we hurried to the train.
The relief I experienced when fairly seated in the car, the excitement of finding myself in the world once more, among bustling, wide-awake people, stimulated me, and for some time I was unconscious of my fatigue.
The Englishman was to leave me at a station a few miles beyond Bangor, as his journey lay in a different direction. We exchanged cards, and I could not help saying, as we parted:
'I met you a stranger, but I have found in you a friend and a brother.'[A]
The Scotchman continued on to Boston with me.
His chivalrous and thoughtful consideration remained undiminished.
At last, after many intervals of lassitude and reanimation, I broke down altogether. My strength left me. Over-powered with grief and fatigue, I was glad to rest my weary head on my old plaid cloak, which the Scotchman rolled into a pillow for me in the saloon of the car, where I lay for the last six hours until we reached Boston.
Kind friends were there to meet me, and the Scotchman gave me into their charge, a poor, exhausted creature.
But I was intime—and that was enough.