Chapter Thirteen.Captain Sinclair’s Warning.In the course of a week or two, things found their places, and the family began to feel more comfortable; there was, also, a degree of regularity and order established, which could not be effected during the time that the soldiers were employed. Mrs Campbell and Percival took upon them all the work inside and round the house during the morning; the latter attending to the pigs and fowls, bringing water from the stream, etcetera. Mary and Emma milked the cows, and then assisted their mother during the day in washing, etcetera. Mr Campbell instructed Percival, worked in the garden, and assisted as much as he could where he might be found most useful; but he was too advanced in years to be capable of much hard work. Alfred, Henry, and Martin Super were employed during the whole day clearing the ground and felling the timber; but every other day, one or the other went out with Martin into the woods to procure food, bringing home with them deer, wild turkeys, or other game, which, with an occasional piece of salt-pork, and the fish caught, were sufficient for the family consumption. Percival was now permitted to accompany the hunting-parties, and became somewhat expert with his rifle. He required only a little more practice to be a good shot.They rose at half-past five,—were all assembled to prayers at half-past seven, previous to going to breakfast. They dined at one, and had a combined tea and supper at seven o’clock. At nine o’clock they went to bed. Before two months had passed away, everything went on like clockwork. One day passed away so like another, that the time flew imperceptibly, and they wondered that the Sundays came round so quick. They had now time to unpack everything, and the books which Mrs Campbell had selected and brought with her had been arranged on shelves in the parlour; but they had not as yet much time to read, and were generally too tired before the day was over not to long for their beds. Indeed, the only interval of leisure during the whole day was between supper and bedtime, when they would all assemble in the kitchen and talk over the little matters which had occurred either during the chase or at home. But they were now in the middle of October, the winter was fast approaching, and they looked forward to it with some degree of anxiety.John had kept his word very sacredly. He was occasionally absent for three or four days, but, if so, he invariably came to the house and remained a day or two at home. Alfred and Martin had long finished the fishing-punt, and as it was light and easily handled, Henry and Percival went out in it together, and when he was at home, John with Percival would pull half a mile out into the lake, and soon return with a supply of large fish. Mrs Campbell, therefore, had salted down sufficient to fill a barrel for the winter’s use.One day they were agreeably surprised by Captain Sinclair making his appearance. He had walked from the fort, to communicate to them that the hay had been gathered in, and would be sent round in a day or two, and also to inform Mr Campbell that the commandant could spare them a young bullock, if he would wish to have it for winter provision. This offer was gladly accepted, and, having partaken of their dinner, Captain Sinclair was obliged to return to the fort, he being that night on duty. Previous, however, to his return, he had some conversation with Martin Super, unobserved by the rest of the party. Afterwards he invited Alfred to walk back to the fort with him and return on the following morning.Alfred agreed to do so; and two hours before it was dark they set off, and as soon as they were on the opposite side of the brook they were joined by Martin Super.“My reasons for asking you to come back with me were twofold,” said Captain Sinclair to Alfred. “In the first place, I wish you to know the road to the fort, in case it should be necessary to make any communication during the winter; secondly, I wished to have some conversation with you and Martin relative to information we have received about the Indians. I can tell you privately what I was unwilling to say before your mother and cousins, as it would put them in a state of restlessness and anxiety, which could avail nothing, and only annoy them. The fact is, we have for some time had information that the Indians have held several councils. It does not appear, however, that they have as yet decided upon any thing, although it is certain that they have gathered together in large numbers not very far from the fort. No doubt but they have French emissaries inciting them to attack us. From what we can learn, however, they have not agreed among themselves, and, therefore, in all probability, nothing will be attempted until next year, for the autumn is their season for sending out their war-parties. At the same time, there is no security, for there is a great difference between a junction of all the tribes against us and a common Indian war party. We must, therefore, be on the alert, for we have a treacherous foe to deal with. And now, for your portion of interest in this affair. If they attack the fort, which they may do, notwithstanding our treaties with them, you of course would not be safe where you are; but, unfortunately, you may not be safe even if we are not molested; for when the Indians collect (even though the main body decide upon nothing), there are always bands of five to ten Indians, who, having left their homes, will not return if they can help it without some booty; these are not regular warriors, or if warriors, not much esteemed by the tribe, in fact, they are the worst classes of Indians, who are mere robbers and banditti. You must, therefore be on the look-out for the visits of these people. It is fortunate for you that old Bone has shifted his abode so many miles to the westward, and that you are on such good terms with him, as it is not very likely that any party of Indians can approach you without his meeting with them or their track during his excursions.”“That’s true, Captain,” observed Martin, “and I will go myself and put him on his guard.”“But, will they not attack him before they attack us?” said Alfred.“Why should they?” replied Sinclair. “He is as much an Indian almost as they are, and is well known to most of them. Besides, what would they gain by attacking him? These straggling parties, which you have to fear, are in quest of booty, and will not expect to find anything in his wigwam except a few furs. No, they will not venture near his rifle, which they fear, when there is nothing to be obtained by so doing. I mention this to you, Alfred, that you may be prepared, and keep a sharp look-out. It is very possible that nothing of the kind may occur, and that the winter may pass away without any danger, and I mention it to you and Martin, as I consider that the probabilities are not sufficient to warrant your alarming the other members of the family, especially the female portion of it. How far you may consider it advisable to communicate what has now passed to your father and Henry, it is for you to decide. As I said before, I do not imagine you have much to fear from a general attack; it is too late in the year, and we know that the councils broke up without coming to any decision. You have only to fear the attempts of small parties of marauders, and I think you are quite strong enough, both in numbers and in the defences of your habitation, to resist them successfully, if you are not suddenly surprised. That is all that you have to fear; and now that you are warned, half the danger is over.”“Well, Captain, I’ll leave you now,” said Martin, “I shall go over to old Malachi’s to-night; for it occurs to me that any attack is more likely to be made between the fall of the leaf and the fall of the snow than afterwards; so the sooner I put Malachi on his guard the better. Good evening, sir.”Captain Sinclair and Alfred continued on their way to the fort. They had contracted a strong friendship, and were unreserved in their communication with each other.“You have no idea, Alfred,” said Captain Sinclair, “how the peculiar position of your family occupies my thoughts. It really appears almost like madness on the part of your father to bring out your mother and cousins to such a place, and expose them to such privations and dangers. I can hardly sleep at night when I reflect upon what might happen.”“I believe,” replied Alfred, “that if my father had known exactly what his present position would have been, he would have decided upon not leaving England; but you must remember that he came out with much encouragement, and the idea that he would only have to surmount the hardships of a settler in clearing his land. He fancied, at least, I’m sureweall did, that we should be surrounded by other farmers, and have no particular danger to incur. When at Quebec, he found that all the good land near to civilisation was bought up or possessed by the French Canadians; he was advised to come further westward by those who ought to have been aware of what he would have to encounter by so doing, but who probably considered that the danger we now apprehend no longer existed; and he has followed that advice, which I have no doubt was conscientiously given. I think myself, even now, that the advice was good, although we are accompanied by females who have been brought up in so different a sphere, and for whose welfare such anxiety is shown; for observe now, Sinclair, suppose, without having made our acquaintance, you had heard that some settlers, men and women, had located themselves where we have done; should you have considered it so very rash an undertaking, presuming that they were merely farmers and farmers’ wives?”“I certainly should have troubled myself very little about them, and perhaps not thought upon the subject.”“But supposing that the subject had been brought up at the fort, and you heard that the parties had a stockaded house and four or five good rifles to depend upon, with the fort to fall back upon if necessary?”“I admit that I should most probably have said that they were in a position to protect themselves.”“Most assuredly, and therefore we are equally so; your feelings of interest in us magnify the danger, and I therefore trust that in future you will not allow our position to interfere with your night’s rest.”“I wish I could bring myself to that feeling of security Alfred. If I were only with you, to assist in protecting them, I should sleep sound enough.”“Then you would not be of much use as a watch,” replied Alfred, laughing. “Never fear, Sinclair, we shall do well enough,” continued he, “and if we require assistance, we will apply for you and a party of soldiers.”“There would be much difficulty about that, Alfred,” replied Captain Sinclair; “if there were sufficient danger to make that demand upon the commandant, the same danger would require that he should not weaken his force in the fort; no, you would have to retreat to the fort, and leave your farm to the mercy of the Indians.”“It certainly would be the wisest plan of the two,” replied Alfred; “at all events, we could send the women. But the Indians have not come yet, and we must hope that they will not.”The conversation was then changed, and in half-an-hour more they arrived at the fort.Alfred was welcomed at the fort by Colonel Forster, with whom he was a great favourite. The Colonel could not refrain from expressing his opinion that Mr Campbell and his family were in a position of some danger, and lamenting that the female portion of the family, who had been brought up with such very different prospects, should be so situated. He even ventured to hint that if Mrs Campbell and the two Misses Percival would pass the winter in the fort, he would make arrangements to accommodate them. But Alfred at once replied that he was convinced no inducement would persuade his mother or cousins to leave his father; they had shared his prosperity, and they would cling to him in his adversity; that they all were aware of what they would have to risk before they came out, and his father preferred a life of honourable independence attended with danger, to seeking the assistance of others.“But still I cannot perceive any reason for the ladies remaining to encounter the danger.”“The more we are, the stronger we are to repel danger.”“But women, surely, will only be an incumbrance!”“I think differently,” replied Alfred. “Young and delicate as my cousins are, they will not shrink any more than my mother when their services are required. They now can all of them use a rifle, if required, and to defend a house, a determined woman is almost as effective as a man. Depend upon it, if it comes to the necessity, they will do so. You see, therefore, Colonel, that by taking away our ladies, you will weaken our force,” continued Alfred, laughing.“Well, I will press it no more. Only recollect that I shall always be ready to send you any assistance when required.”“I have been thinking, Colonel Forster, that, as we have no horses at present, if you have any rockets, they might be useful in such a case. At the distance we are from you a rocket would be seen immediately if fired at night, and I promise you, that it shall not be fired without great necessity.”“I am glad that you have mentioned it, Alfred; you shall have a dozen to take with you. You go back with the boats that carry the hay to-morrow morning, do you not?”“Yes; I shall take that opportunity, to save wearing out my shoes, as we have no cobbler near to us. I presume it will be the last trip made by the boats this season.”“Yes,” replied the Colonel, “the frost will soon set in now. In another fortnight we shall probably be visited with a heavy fall of snow, and the ground will then be covered till the spring. But I suppose we shall see or hear from you occasionally?”“Yes; as soon as I can push along in my snow-shoes, I will pay you a visit,” replied Alfred, “but I have that art to learn yet.”The following morning the sky was clear and the day brilliant. The sun shone upon the dark scarlet-tinged foliage of the oaks, and through the transparent yellow leaves of the maple. A slight frost had appeared for two or three mornings about a month back, and now they were enjoying what was termed the Indian summer, which is a return of fair and rather warm weather for a short time previous to the winter setting in. The soldiers were busy carrying the hay down to thebateaux, and, before noon, Alfred bade farewell to Colonel Forster and the other officers of the fort, and, accompanied by Captain Sinclair, went down to embark. All was ready, and Alfred stepped into the boat; Captain Sinclair being on duty and not able to accompany him back.“I shall not fail to give directions to the sentries about the rockets, Alfred,” said Captain Sinclair, “and so tell your mother and cousins; and mind to shew them how to fire them off from out of the barrel of a musket. Good-bye; God bless you, my dear fellow.”“Good-bye,” replied Alfred, as the boats pulled from the shore.
In the course of a week or two, things found their places, and the family began to feel more comfortable; there was, also, a degree of regularity and order established, which could not be effected during the time that the soldiers were employed. Mrs Campbell and Percival took upon them all the work inside and round the house during the morning; the latter attending to the pigs and fowls, bringing water from the stream, etcetera. Mary and Emma milked the cows, and then assisted their mother during the day in washing, etcetera. Mr Campbell instructed Percival, worked in the garden, and assisted as much as he could where he might be found most useful; but he was too advanced in years to be capable of much hard work. Alfred, Henry, and Martin Super were employed during the whole day clearing the ground and felling the timber; but every other day, one or the other went out with Martin into the woods to procure food, bringing home with them deer, wild turkeys, or other game, which, with an occasional piece of salt-pork, and the fish caught, were sufficient for the family consumption. Percival was now permitted to accompany the hunting-parties, and became somewhat expert with his rifle. He required only a little more practice to be a good shot.
They rose at half-past five,—were all assembled to prayers at half-past seven, previous to going to breakfast. They dined at one, and had a combined tea and supper at seven o’clock. At nine o’clock they went to bed. Before two months had passed away, everything went on like clockwork. One day passed away so like another, that the time flew imperceptibly, and they wondered that the Sundays came round so quick. They had now time to unpack everything, and the books which Mrs Campbell had selected and brought with her had been arranged on shelves in the parlour; but they had not as yet much time to read, and were generally too tired before the day was over not to long for their beds. Indeed, the only interval of leisure during the whole day was between supper and bedtime, when they would all assemble in the kitchen and talk over the little matters which had occurred either during the chase or at home. But they were now in the middle of October, the winter was fast approaching, and they looked forward to it with some degree of anxiety.
John had kept his word very sacredly. He was occasionally absent for three or four days, but, if so, he invariably came to the house and remained a day or two at home. Alfred and Martin had long finished the fishing-punt, and as it was light and easily handled, Henry and Percival went out in it together, and when he was at home, John with Percival would pull half a mile out into the lake, and soon return with a supply of large fish. Mrs Campbell, therefore, had salted down sufficient to fill a barrel for the winter’s use.
One day they were agreeably surprised by Captain Sinclair making his appearance. He had walked from the fort, to communicate to them that the hay had been gathered in, and would be sent round in a day or two, and also to inform Mr Campbell that the commandant could spare them a young bullock, if he would wish to have it for winter provision. This offer was gladly accepted, and, having partaken of their dinner, Captain Sinclair was obliged to return to the fort, he being that night on duty. Previous, however, to his return, he had some conversation with Martin Super, unobserved by the rest of the party. Afterwards he invited Alfred to walk back to the fort with him and return on the following morning.
Alfred agreed to do so; and two hours before it was dark they set off, and as soon as they were on the opposite side of the brook they were joined by Martin Super.
“My reasons for asking you to come back with me were twofold,” said Captain Sinclair to Alfred. “In the first place, I wish you to know the road to the fort, in case it should be necessary to make any communication during the winter; secondly, I wished to have some conversation with you and Martin relative to information we have received about the Indians. I can tell you privately what I was unwilling to say before your mother and cousins, as it would put them in a state of restlessness and anxiety, which could avail nothing, and only annoy them. The fact is, we have for some time had information that the Indians have held several councils. It does not appear, however, that they have as yet decided upon any thing, although it is certain that they have gathered together in large numbers not very far from the fort. No doubt but they have French emissaries inciting them to attack us. From what we can learn, however, they have not agreed among themselves, and, therefore, in all probability, nothing will be attempted until next year, for the autumn is their season for sending out their war-parties. At the same time, there is no security, for there is a great difference between a junction of all the tribes against us and a common Indian war party. We must, therefore, be on the alert, for we have a treacherous foe to deal with. And now, for your portion of interest in this affair. If they attack the fort, which they may do, notwithstanding our treaties with them, you of course would not be safe where you are; but, unfortunately, you may not be safe even if we are not molested; for when the Indians collect (even though the main body decide upon nothing), there are always bands of five to ten Indians, who, having left their homes, will not return if they can help it without some booty; these are not regular warriors, or if warriors, not much esteemed by the tribe, in fact, they are the worst classes of Indians, who are mere robbers and banditti. You must, therefore be on the look-out for the visits of these people. It is fortunate for you that old Bone has shifted his abode so many miles to the westward, and that you are on such good terms with him, as it is not very likely that any party of Indians can approach you without his meeting with them or their track during his excursions.”
“That’s true, Captain,” observed Martin, “and I will go myself and put him on his guard.”
“But, will they not attack him before they attack us?” said Alfred.
“Why should they?” replied Sinclair. “He is as much an Indian almost as they are, and is well known to most of them. Besides, what would they gain by attacking him? These straggling parties, which you have to fear, are in quest of booty, and will not expect to find anything in his wigwam except a few furs. No, they will not venture near his rifle, which they fear, when there is nothing to be obtained by so doing. I mention this to you, Alfred, that you may be prepared, and keep a sharp look-out. It is very possible that nothing of the kind may occur, and that the winter may pass away without any danger, and I mention it to you and Martin, as I consider that the probabilities are not sufficient to warrant your alarming the other members of the family, especially the female portion of it. How far you may consider it advisable to communicate what has now passed to your father and Henry, it is for you to decide. As I said before, I do not imagine you have much to fear from a general attack; it is too late in the year, and we know that the councils broke up without coming to any decision. You have only to fear the attempts of small parties of marauders, and I think you are quite strong enough, both in numbers and in the defences of your habitation, to resist them successfully, if you are not suddenly surprised. That is all that you have to fear; and now that you are warned, half the danger is over.”
“Well, Captain, I’ll leave you now,” said Martin, “I shall go over to old Malachi’s to-night; for it occurs to me that any attack is more likely to be made between the fall of the leaf and the fall of the snow than afterwards; so the sooner I put Malachi on his guard the better. Good evening, sir.”
Captain Sinclair and Alfred continued on their way to the fort. They had contracted a strong friendship, and were unreserved in their communication with each other.
“You have no idea, Alfred,” said Captain Sinclair, “how the peculiar position of your family occupies my thoughts. It really appears almost like madness on the part of your father to bring out your mother and cousins to such a place, and expose them to such privations and dangers. I can hardly sleep at night when I reflect upon what might happen.”
“I believe,” replied Alfred, “that if my father had known exactly what his present position would have been, he would have decided upon not leaving England; but you must remember that he came out with much encouragement, and the idea that he would only have to surmount the hardships of a settler in clearing his land. He fancied, at least, I’m sureweall did, that we should be surrounded by other farmers, and have no particular danger to incur. When at Quebec, he found that all the good land near to civilisation was bought up or possessed by the French Canadians; he was advised to come further westward by those who ought to have been aware of what he would have to encounter by so doing, but who probably considered that the danger we now apprehend no longer existed; and he has followed that advice, which I have no doubt was conscientiously given. I think myself, even now, that the advice was good, although we are accompanied by females who have been brought up in so different a sphere, and for whose welfare such anxiety is shown; for observe now, Sinclair, suppose, without having made our acquaintance, you had heard that some settlers, men and women, had located themselves where we have done; should you have considered it so very rash an undertaking, presuming that they were merely farmers and farmers’ wives?”
“I certainly should have troubled myself very little about them, and perhaps not thought upon the subject.”
“But supposing that the subject had been brought up at the fort, and you heard that the parties had a stockaded house and four or five good rifles to depend upon, with the fort to fall back upon if necessary?”
“I admit that I should most probably have said that they were in a position to protect themselves.”
“Most assuredly, and therefore we are equally so; your feelings of interest in us magnify the danger, and I therefore trust that in future you will not allow our position to interfere with your night’s rest.”
“I wish I could bring myself to that feeling of security Alfred. If I were only with you, to assist in protecting them, I should sleep sound enough.”
“Then you would not be of much use as a watch,” replied Alfred, laughing. “Never fear, Sinclair, we shall do well enough,” continued he, “and if we require assistance, we will apply for you and a party of soldiers.”
“There would be much difficulty about that, Alfred,” replied Captain Sinclair; “if there were sufficient danger to make that demand upon the commandant, the same danger would require that he should not weaken his force in the fort; no, you would have to retreat to the fort, and leave your farm to the mercy of the Indians.”
“It certainly would be the wisest plan of the two,” replied Alfred; “at all events, we could send the women. But the Indians have not come yet, and we must hope that they will not.”
The conversation was then changed, and in half-an-hour more they arrived at the fort.
Alfred was welcomed at the fort by Colonel Forster, with whom he was a great favourite. The Colonel could not refrain from expressing his opinion that Mr Campbell and his family were in a position of some danger, and lamenting that the female portion of the family, who had been brought up with such very different prospects, should be so situated. He even ventured to hint that if Mrs Campbell and the two Misses Percival would pass the winter in the fort, he would make arrangements to accommodate them. But Alfred at once replied that he was convinced no inducement would persuade his mother or cousins to leave his father; they had shared his prosperity, and they would cling to him in his adversity; that they all were aware of what they would have to risk before they came out, and his father preferred a life of honourable independence attended with danger, to seeking the assistance of others.
“But still I cannot perceive any reason for the ladies remaining to encounter the danger.”
“The more we are, the stronger we are to repel danger.”
“But women, surely, will only be an incumbrance!”
“I think differently,” replied Alfred. “Young and delicate as my cousins are, they will not shrink any more than my mother when their services are required. They now can all of them use a rifle, if required, and to defend a house, a determined woman is almost as effective as a man. Depend upon it, if it comes to the necessity, they will do so. You see, therefore, Colonel, that by taking away our ladies, you will weaken our force,” continued Alfred, laughing.
“Well, I will press it no more. Only recollect that I shall always be ready to send you any assistance when required.”
“I have been thinking, Colonel Forster, that, as we have no horses at present, if you have any rockets, they might be useful in such a case. At the distance we are from you a rocket would be seen immediately if fired at night, and I promise you, that it shall not be fired without great necessity.”
“I am glad that you have mentioned it, Alfred; you shall have a dozen to take with you. You go back with the boats that carry the hay to-morrow morning, do you not?”
“Yes; I shall take that opportunity, to save wearing out my shoes, as we have no cobbler near to us. I presume it will be the last trip made by the boats this season.”
“Yes,” replied the Colonel, “the frost will soon set in now. In another fortnight we shall probably be visited with a heavy fall of snow, and the ground will then be covered till the spring. But I suppose we shall see or hear from you occasionally?”
“Yes; as soon as I can push along in my snow-shoes, I will pay you a visit,” replied Alfred, “but I have that art to learn yet.”
The following morning the sky was clear and the day brilliant. The sun shone upon the dark scarlet-tinged foliage of the oaks, and through the transparent yellow leaves of the maple. A slight frost had appeared for two or three mornings about a month back, and now they were enjoying what was termed the Indian summer, which is a return of fair and rather warm weather for a short time previous to the winter setting in. The soldiers were busy carrying the hay down to thebateaux, and, before noon, Alfred bade farewell to Colonel Forster and the other officers of the fort, and, accompanied by Captain Sinclair, went down to embark. All was ready, and Alfred stepped into the boat; Captain Sinclair being on duty and not able to accompany him back.
“I shall not fail to give directions to the sentries about the rockets, Alfred,” said Captain Sinclair, “and so tell your mother and cousins; and mind to shew them how to fire them off from out of the barrel of a musket. Good-bye; God bless you, my dear fellow.”
“Good-bye,” replied Alfred, as the boats pulled from the shore.
Chapter Fourteen.Letters from England.After Alfred’s return from the fort, a few days passed away without any incident: Martin had paid a visit to Malachi Bone, who had promised that he would be on the look-out and would give immediate information and assistance in case of any hostile measures on the part of the Indians. He told Martin, that in a few days he would discover what had taken place and what might be looked forward to. When Martin returned with this communication, Alfred was satisfied, and did not acquaint anybody except his brother Henry with the information which he had received from Captain Sinclair.The monotony of their life was, however, broken in upon by the arrival of a corporal from the fort, who was the bearer of the first dispatches which they had received since their arrival at the settlement. Letters, yes, letters, not only from Quebec but from England, were announced. The whole house was in confusion, all crowding round Mr Campbell while he unsealed the large packet. First a bundle of English newspapers from the Governor of Quebec—these were laid aside; a letter from Mr Campbell’s agent at Quebec—this was on business and could wait his leisure; then the letters from England—two long well-filled double letters from Miss Paterson to Mary and Emma; another from Mr Campbell’s agent in England, and a large one on foolscap paper with “On His Majesty’s Service,” directed to Mr Alfred Campbell. Each party seized upon their letters, and hastened on one side with them. Mrs Campbell being the only one who had no correspondent, anxiously watched the countenance of Alfred, who, after a hasty glance, cried out, “I am confirmed to my rank, my dear mother; I am a lieutenant in his Majesty’s service—huzza! Here’s a letter inclosed from Captain Lumley; I know his handwriting.” Alfred received the congratulations of the whole party, handed the official letter to his mother, and then commenced the perusal of the one from Captain Lumley. After a short silence, during which they were all occupied with their correspondence, Mr Campbell said, “I also have good news to communicate to you; Mr H. writes to me to say, that Mr Douglas Campbell, on finding the green-houses and hot-houses so well stocked, considers that he was bound to pay for the plants; that they have been valued at seven hundred pounds, and that he has paid that money into my agent’s hands. This is extremely liberal of Mr Douglas Campbell, and I certainly did not expect, as I found plants there on my taking possession, that I was entitled to any remuneration for what I left. However, I am too poor to refuse his offer from any feelings of delicacy, and shall therefore write and thank him for his generous behaviour.” Alfred had read the letter from Captain Lumley, which made him very thoughtful. The fact was, that his promotion and the observations in Captain Lumley’s letter had brought back all his former regret at having quitted the service, and he was very melancholy in consequence; but as his cousins read their letters aloud, he gradually recovered his spirits.At last, all the letters were read, and then the newspapers were distributed. No more work was done that day, and in the evening they all sat round the kitchen fire and talked over the intelligence they had received until long after their usual time of retiring to bed.“I have been thinking, my dear Emily,” said Mr Campbell the next morning, before they quitted their sleeping-room, “what a very seasonable supply of money this will be. My funds, as you have seen by the account of my Quebec agent, were nearly exhausted, and we have many things yet to procure. We shall require horses next year, and we must increase our stock in every way; indeed, if we could have another man or two, it would be very advantageous, as the sooner we clear the ground, the sooner we shall be independent.”“I agree with you, Campbell; besides, we shall now have Alfred’s half-pay, poor fellow, which will help us very much; I have been thinking more of him than anything else this night: I watched him when he read Captain Lumley’s letter, and I well understood the cause of his seriousness for some time afterwards; I almost feel inclined to let him return to his profession; it would be painful parting with him, but the sacrifice on his part is very great.”“Still it’s his duty,” replied Mr Campbell, “and, moreover, absolutely necessary at present, that he should remain with us. When we are more settled and more independent of his assistance we will talk over the subject.”In the meantime, Mary and Emma had gone out as usual to milk the cows. It was a beautiful clear day, but there was a bracing air which cheered the spirits, and the sunshine was pleasantly warm in situations sheltered from the winds; one of the few fine days just before the rushing in of winter. They had milked their cows, and had just turned them out again, when they both sat down with their pails before them on a log, which was in front of Malachi’s lodge, now used as a cow-house.“Do you know, Mary,” said Emma, after a pause, “I’m almost sorry that I have received a letter from Miss Paterson.”“Indeed, dear Emma!”“Yes, indeed, it has unsettled me. I did nothing but dream all last night. Everything was recalled to my mind—all that I most wished to forget. I fancied myself again engaged in all the pursuits of our much-loved home; I was playing the harp, you were accompanying on the piano as usual; we walked out in the shrubberies; we took an airing in the carriage; all the servants were before me; we went to the village and to the almshouses; we were in the garden picking dahlias and roses; I was just going up to dress for a very large dinner-party, and had rung the bell for Simpson, when I woke up, and found myself in a log-hut, with my eyes fixed upon the rafters and bark covering of the roof, thousands of miles from Wexton Hall, and half-an-hour longer in bed than a dairy-maid should be.”“I will confess, my dear Emma, that I passed much such a night; old associations will rise up again when so forcibly brought to our remembrance as they have been by Miss Paterson’s letters, but I strove all I could to banish them from my mind, and not indulge in useless repining.”“Repine, I do not, Mary, at least, I hope not, but one cannot well help regretting; I cannot help remembering, as Macduff says, that ‘such things were.’”“He might well say so, Emma; for what had he lost? his wife and all his children, ruthlessly murdered; but what have we lost in comparison? nothing—a few luxuries. Have we not health and spirits? Have we not our kind uncle and aunt, who have fostered us—our cousins so attached to us?“Had it not been for the kindness of our uncle and aunt, who have brought us up as their own children, should we, poor orphans, have ever been partakers of those luxuries which you now regret? Ought we not rather to thank Heaven that circumstances have enabled us to shew some gratitude for benefits heaped upon us? How much greater are these privations to my uncle and aunt now that they are so much more advanced in years, and have been so much longer accustomed to competence and ease; and shall we repine or even regret, unless it is on their account? surely, my dear Emma, not on our own.”“I feel the truth of all you say, Mary,” replied Emma; “nay, all that you have now said passed in my own mind, and I have argued to myself in almost the same words, but I fear that I am not quite so much of a philosopher as you are; and, acknowledging that what you say is correct, I still have the same feeling—that is, I wish that I had not received the letter from Miss Paterson.”“In that wish there can be no harm, for it is only wishing that you may not be tempted to repine.”“Exactly, my dear Mary; I am a daughter of Eve,” replied Emma, laughing, and rising from her seat; “I will put away Miss Paterson’s letter, and I daresay in a day or two shall have forgotten all about it. Dear Alfred, how glad I am that he is promoted; I shall call him Lieutenant Campbell till he is sick of it. Come, Mary, or we shall be keeping my uncle waiting; come, Juno.”Emma’s calling Juno to follow her, reminds me that I have not yet introduced the dogs to my little readers, and as they will have to play their parts in our history, I may as well do so at once. Captain Sinclair, it may be remembered, had procured five dogs for Mr Campbell from the officers of the fort,—two terriers, which were named Trim and Snob; Trim was a small dog and kept in the house, but Snob was a very powerful bull-terrier, and very savage; a fox-hound bitch, the one which Emma had just called Juno; Bully, a very fine young bull-dog, and Sancho, an old pointer. At night, these dogs were tied up; Juno in the store-house; Bully and Snob at the door of the house within the palisade; Trim indoors, and old Sancho at the lodge of Malachi Bone, where the cows were put in at night. Mr Campbell found it rather expensive at first feeding these dogs, but as soon as Martin and his companions brought home game, there was always plenty for them all. They were all very sharp and high-couraged dogs, for they had been born in the fort and had been brought up to hunting every kind of game indiscriminately; and I need hardly add that they were excellent watch-dogs, and considered by Mr Campbell as a great protection. For the next two days, the family remained rather unsettled; there was so much news in the newspapers; so many recollections brought up by their perusal; so much to talk about and discuss, that very little work was done. The weather, however, was now becoming much colder, and, for the last two days the sun had not shone. The sky was of one uniform murky solemn grey; and everything announced that the winter was close at hand. Martin who had been hunting, when he came home bid them prepare for an immediate change in the weather, and his prediction was speedily verified.
After Alfred’s return from the fort, a few days passed away without any incident: Martin had paid a visit to Malachi Bone, who had promised that he would be on the look-out and would give immediate information and assistance in case of any hostile measures on the part of the Indians. He told Martin, that in a few days he would discover what had taken place and what might be looked forward to. When Martin returned with this communication, Alfred was satisfied, and did not acquaint anybody except his brother Henry with the information which he had received from Captain Sinclair.
The monotony of their life was, however, broken in upon by the arrival of a corporal from the fort, who was the bearer of the first dispatches which they had received since their arrival at the settlement. Letters, yes, letters, not only from Quebec but from England, were announced. The whole house was in confusion, all crowding round Mr Campbell while he unsealed the large packet. First a bundle of English newspapers from the Governor of Quebec—these were laid aside; a letter from Mr Campbell’s agent at Quebec—this was on business and could wait his leisure; then the letters from England—two long well-filled double letters from Miss Paterson to Mary and Emma; another from Mr Campbell’s agent in England, and a large one on foolscap paper with “On His Majesty’s Service,” directed to Mr Alfred Campbell. Each party seized upon their letters, and hastened on one side with them. Mrs Campbell being the only one who had no correspondent, anxiously watched the countenance of Alfred, who, after a hasty glance, cried out, “I am confirmed to my rank, my dear mother; I am a lieutenant in his Majesty’s service—huzza! Here’s a letter inclosed from Captain Lumley; I know his handwriting.” Alfred received the congratulations of the whole party, handed the official letter to his mother, and then commenced the perusal of the one from Captain Lumley. After a short silence, during which they were all occupied with their correspondence, Mr Campbell said, “I also have good news to communicate to you; Mr H. writes to me to say, that Mr Douglas Campbell, on finding the green-houses and hot-houses so well stocked, considers that he was bound to pay for the plants; that they have been valued at seven hundred pounds, and that he has paid that money into my agent’s hands. This is extremely liberal of Mr Douglas Campbell, and I certainly did not expect, as I found plants there on my taking possession, that I was entitled to any remuneration for what I left. However, I am too poor to refuse his offer from any feelings of delicacy, and shall therefore write and thank him for his generous behaviour.” Alfred had read the letter from Captain Lumley, which made him very thoughtful. The fact was, that his promotion and the observations in Captain Lumley’s letter had brought back all his former regret at having quitted the service, and he was very melancholy in consequence; but as his cousins read their letters aloud, he gradually recovered his spirits.
At last, all the letters were read, and then the newspapers were distributed. No more work was done that day, and in the evening they all sat round the kitchen fire and talked over the intelligence they had received until long after their usual time of retiring to bed.
“I have been thinking, my dear Emily,” said Mr Campbell the next morning, before they quitted their sleeping-room, “what a very seasonable supply of money this will be. My funds, as you have seen by the account of my Quebec agent, were nearly exhausted, and we have many things yet to procure. We shall require horses next year, and we must increase our stock in every way; indeed, if we could have another man or two, it would be very advantageous, as the sooner we clear the ground, the sooner we shall be independent.”
“I agree with you, Campbell; besides, we shall now have Alfred’s half-pay, poor fellow, which will help us very much; I have been thinking more of him than anything else this night: I watched him when he read Captain Lumley’s letter, and I well understood the cause of his seriousness for some time afterwards; I almost feel inclined to let him return to his profession; it would be painful parting with him, but the sacrifice on his part is very great.”
“Still it’s his duty,” replied Mr Campbell, “and, moreover, absolutely necessary at present, that he should remain with us. When we are more settled and more independent of his assistance we will talk over the subject.”
In the meantime, Mary and Emma had gone out as usual to milk the cows. It was a beautiful clear day, but there was a bracing air which cheered the spirits, and the sunshine was pleasantly warm in situations sheltered from the winds; one of the few fine days just before the rushing in of winter. They had milked their cows, and had just turned them out again, when they both sat down with their pails before them on a log, which was in front of Malachi’s lodge, now used as a cow-house.
“Do you know, Mary,” said Emma, after a pause, “I’m almost sorry that I have received a letter from Miss Paterson.”
“Indeed, dear Emma!”
“Yes, indeed, it has unsettled me. I did nothing but dream all last night. Everything was recalled to my mind—all that I most wished to forget. I fancied myself again engaged in all the pursuits of our much-loved home; I was playing the harp, you were accompanying on the piano as usual; we walked out in the shrubberies; we took an airing in the carriage; all the servants were before me; we went to the village and to the almshouses; we were in the garden picking dahlias and roses; I was just going up to dress for a very large dinner-party, and had rung the bell for Simpson, when I woke up, and found myself in a log-hut, with my eyes fixed upon the rafters and bark covering of the roof, thousands of miles from Wexton Hall, and half-an-hour longer in bed than a dairy-maid should be.”
“I will confess, my dear Emma, that I passed much such a night; old associations will rise up again when so forcibly brought to our remembrance as they have been by Miss Paterson’s letters, but I strove all I could to banish them from my mind, and not indulge in useless repining.”
“Repine, I do not, Mary, at least, I hope not, but one cannot well help regretting; I cannot help remembering, as Macduff says, that ‘such things were.’”
“He might well say so, Emma; for what had he lost? his wife and all his children, ruthlessly murdered; but what have we lost in comparison? nothing—a few luxuries. Have we not health and spirits? Have we not our kind uncle and aunt, who have fostered us—our cousins so attached to us?
“Had it not been for the kindness of our uncle and aunt, who have brought us up as their own children, should we, poor orphans, have ever been partakers of those luxuries which you now regret? Ought we not rather to thank Heaven that circumstances have enabled us to shew some gratitude for benefits heaped upon us? How much greater are these privations to my uncle and aunt now that they are so much more advanced in years, and have been so much longer accustomed to competence and ease; and shall we repine or even regret, unless it is on their account? surely, my dear Emma, not on our own.”
“I feel the truth of all you say, Mary,” replied Emma; “nay, all that you have now said passed in my own mind, and I have argued to myself in almost the same words, but I fear that I am not quite so much of a philosopher as you are; and, acknowledging that what you say is correct, I still have the same feeling—that is, I wish that I had not received the letter from Miss Paterson.”
“In that wish there can be no harm, for it is only wishing that you may not be tempted to repine.”
“Exactly, my dear Mary; I am a daughter of Eve,” replied Emma, laughing, and rising from her seat; “I will put away Miss Paterson’s letter, and I daresay in a day or two shall have forgotten all about it. Dear Alfred, how glad I am that he is promoted; I shall call him Lieutenant Campbell till he is sick of it. Come, Mary, or we shall be keeping my uncle waiting; come, Juno.”
Emma’s calling Juno to follow her, reminds me that I have not yet introduced the dogs to my little readers, and as they will have to play their parts in our history, I may as well do so at once. Captain Sinclair, it may be remembered, had procured five dogs for Mr Campbell from the officers of the fort,—two terriers, which were named Trim and Snob; Trim was a small dog and kept in the house, but Snob was a very powerful bull-terrier, and very savage; a fox-hound bitch, the one which Emma had just called Juno; Bully, a very fine young bull-dog, and Sancho, an old pointer. At night, these dogs were tied up; Juno in the store-house; Bully and Snob at the door of the house within the palisade; Trim indoors, and old Sancho at the lodge of Malachi Bone, where the cows were put in at night. Mr Campbell found it rather expensive at first feeding these dogs, but as soon as Martin and his companions brought home game, there was always plenty for them all. They were all very sharp and high-couraged dogs, for they had been born in the fort and had been brought up to hunting every kind of game indiscriminately; and I need hardly add that they were excellent watch-dogs, and considered by Mr Campbell as a great protection. For the next two days, the family remained rather unsettled; there was so much news in the newspapers; so many recollections brought up by their perusal; so much to talk about and discuss, that very little work was done. The weather, however, was now becoming much colder, and, for the last two days the sun had not shone. The sky was of one uniform murky solemn grey; and everything announced that the winter was close at hand. Martin who had been hunting, when he came home bid them prepare for an immediate change in the weather, and his prediction was speedily verified.
Chapter Fifteen.Dangerous Neighbours.It was on the Saturday evening, when they had all assembled round the fire, for it was more cold than it had hitherto been, that the moaning of the wind among the trees of the forest announced a gale of wind from the northward.“We shall have it soon,” observed Martin, “winter mostly comes in with a gale.”“Yes; and this appears as if it would be a strong gale,” replied Alfred. “Hark! how the boughs of the trees are sawing and cracking against each other.”“I reckon we may get our snow-shoes out of the store-house, John,” said Martin, “and then we shall see how you can get over the ground with them when you go out hunting. You have not shot a moose yet.”“Is the moose the same as the elk, Martin?” said Henry.“I do not think it is, sir; yet I’ve heard both names given to the animal.”“Have you ever shot any?” said Mrs Campbell.“Yes, ma’am; many a one. They’re queer animals; they don’t run like the other deer, but they trot as fast as the others run, so it comes to the same thing. They are very shy, and difficult to get near, except in the heavy snow, and then their weight will not allow them to get over it, as the lighter deer can; they sink up to their shoulders, and flounder about till they are overtaken. You see, Master Percival, the moose can’t put on snow-shoes like we can, and that gives us the advantage over the animal.”“Are they dangerous animals, Martin?” inquired Mary.“Every large animal is more or less dangerous when it turns to bay, miss. A moose’s horns sometimes weigh fifty pounds, and it is a strong animal to boot; but it can’t do anything when the snow is deep. You’ll find it good eating, at all events, when we bring one in.”“I’ll bring one,” said John, who was cleaning his rifle.“I daresay you will, as soon as you can manage your snow-shoes,” replied Martin. “The wind is getting up higher. I guess you’ll not find your way back to Malachi’s lodge, Master John, as you thought to do to-morrow morning.”“It is certainly a dreadful night,” observed Mrs Campbell; “and I feel the cold very sensibly.”“Yes, ma’am; but as soon as the snow is down, you’ll be warmer.”“It is time to go to bed,” observed Mr Campbell, “so put away your work; and, Henry, give me down the bible.”During that night the gale increased to almost a hurricane; the trees of the forest clashed and crackled, groaned and sawed their long arms against each other, creating an unusual and almost appalling noise; the wind howled round the palisades and fluttered the strips of bark on the roof, and as they all lay in bed, they could not sleep from the noise outside, and the increased feeling of cold. It was also the first trial of this new house in severe weather, and some of the wakeful party were anxiously watching the result. Towards the morning the storm abated, and everything was again quiet. In consequence of the restless night which they had passed they were not so early as usual. Emma and Mary, when they came out of their room, found Martin and Alfred up and very busy with shovels; and, to their astonishment, they perceived that the snow was at least three feet deep on the ground, and in some places had been drifted up higher than their heads.“Why, Alfred!” cried Emma; “how shall we be able to go after the cows this morning? This is, indeed, winter come on with little warning.”“It still snows,” observed Mary; “not much, indeed, but the sky is very black.”“Yes, miss, we shall have some more of it yet,” observed Martin. “Mr Campbell and Mr Henry have gone to the store-house for more shovels, for we must work hard, and clear a footpath, and then get the snow up against the palisades.”“What a sudden change,” said Emma; “I wish the sky would clear, and then I should not care.”“It will to-morrow, Miss Emma, I dare say; but the snow must come down first.”Martin and Alfred had only time to clear a path to the store-house. Mr Campbell and Henry returned with more shovels, and as soon as breakfast was over, they commenced work. As for Mary and Emma going to milk the cows, that was impossible. Martin undertook that task until they had cleared a pathway to the hunter’s lodge, in which the animals were shut up every night.By the advice of Martin, the snow next the palisades was piled up against the palings like a wall, as high as they could reach or throw it, by which means they got rid of the snow about the house, and at the same time formed a barrier against the freezing winds which they had to expect. All worked hard; Percival and John were of great use, and even Mrs Campbell and the girls assisted collecting the remainder of the snow, and clearing it off the window-sills and other parts. By noon the snow left off falling, the sky cleared up, and the sun shone bright, although it gave out but little warmth.After dinner they renewed their labours, and commenced clearing away a path to the lodge, where the cows were locked in, and before nightfall they had accomplished their task as far as the bridge over the stream, which was about half-way.It had been a day of great fatigue, and they were glad to retire to rest. Mrs Campbell and the girls had put an additional supply of blankets and skins upon the beds, for the cold was now intense, and the thermometer stood far below the freezing point.The following morning they resumed their task; the sky was still unclouded, and the sun shone out clear and bright. By dinnertime the path to the cow-house had been completed; and the men then employed themselves in carrying as much firewood as they could, before it was dark, within the palisades.“Well,” observed Alfred, “now things may go on as usual within doors; and what have we to do out, Martin?”“You must first get on your snow-shoes, and learn to walk in them,” observed Martin; “or, otherwise, you’ll be a prisoner as well as the ladies. You see, John, you’re not at Malachi’s lodge.”“Go to-morrow,” replied John.“No; not to-morrow, for I must go with you,” said Martin; “I cannot trust you for finding your way; and I cannot go to-morrow nor the next day either. We must kill our beef to-morrow; there’s no fear but it will keep all the winter now, and we shall save our hay.”“My larder is but poorly furnished,” observed Mrs Campbell.“Never mind, ma’am, we’ll soon have something in it, which will save our beef. In another week you shall have it well stocked.”“John,” said Mr Campbell, “recollect you must not go away without Martin.”“I won’t,” replied John.All the game in the larder having been consumed, they sat down to salt-pork and some of the fish which had been cured. The latter was pronounced to be excellent.“What is the name of this fish, Martin?”“It is called the white-fish,” replied Martin, “and I have heard gentry from the old country say that they have none better, if any so good.”“It is certainly most excellent,” replied Mr Campbell, “and we will not forget to have a good provision for next winter, if it pleases God to spare our lives.”“Where were you born, Martin?” said Henry as they were sitting round the kitchen fire, as usual in the evening.“Why, Mr Henry, I was born at Quebec. My father was a corporal in the army under General Wolfe, and was wounded in the great battle fought between him and the Frenchman Montcalm.”“In which both generals were killed, but the victory was to us.”“So I’ve heard, sir,” replied Martin. “My mother was an Englishwoman, and I was born about four years after the surrender of Quebec. My mother died soon afterwards, but my father was alive about five years ago, I believe. I can’t exactly say, as I was for three or four years in the employ of the Fur Company, and when I returned, I found that he was dead.”“And you have been a hunter all your life?”“Not all my life, and not exactly a hunter. I call myself a trapper, but I still am both. I first was out with the Indians when I was about fourteen, for you see my father wanted to make me a drummer, and I could not stand that; so I said to him, ‘Father, I won’t be a drummer.’ ‘Well,’ says he, ‘Martin, you must help yourself, for all my interest lies in the army.’ ‘So I will,’ says I; ‘father, I’m off for the woods.’ ‘Well,’ says he, ‘just as you like, Martin.’ So one fine day I wished him good-bye, and did not see him again for more than two years.”“Well, and what took place then?”“Why, I brought home three or four packages of good skins, and sold them well. Father was so pleased, that he talked of turning trapper himself, but, as I told the old man, a man with a lame leg—for he had been wounded in the leg, and halted—would not make his livelihood by hunting in the woods of Canada.”“Was your father still in the army?”“No, ma’am, he was not in the army; but he was employed in the storekeeper’s department; they gave him the berth on account of his wound.”“Well; go on, Martin.”“I haven’t much more to say, ma’am. I brought home my furs, sold them, and father helped me to spend the money as long as he was alive, and very welcome he was to his share. I felt rather queer when I came back from the Fur Company and found that the old man was dead, for I had looked forward with pleasure to the old man’s welcome, and his enjoying his frolic with me as usual.”“I’m afraid those frolics were not very wise, Martin.”“No, sir, they were very foolish, I believe; but I fear it will always be the case with us trappers. We are like sailors, we do not know what to do with money when we get it; so we throw it away, and the sooner the better, for it is our enemy while we have it. I assure you, sir, that I used to feel quite happy when all my money was gone, and I was setting off to the woods again. It is a hard life, but a life that unfits me for any other; a life which you become very fond of. I don’t mind being here with you by way of a change; indeed, as long as there is hunting, it is almost as good as if I were in the woods, but else I think I shall die a trapper.”“But, Martin,” said Mr Campbell, “how much more wise it would be to put your money by, and after a time purchase a farm and settle down a steady man with property, perhaps married and the father of a family.”“Perhaps it might be; but if I do not like it so well as trapping, I don’t see why I should do so; it would be changing my life to please others and not myself.”“That’s very true, Martin,” said Alfred, laughing.“Perhaps Martin may change his mind before he is an old man,” replied Mrs Campbell. “Dear me! what noise was that?” exclaimed Mrs Campbell, as a melancholy howl was heard without.“Only a rascally wolf, ma’am,” said Martin: “we must expect the animals to be about us now that the snow has fallen, and the winter has set in.”“A wolf! are they not dangerous, Martin?” inquired Mary Percival.“That depends, miss, how hungry they may be; but they are not very fond of attacking a human being; if we had any sheep outside, I fancy that they would stand a bad chance.”The howl was repeated, when one or two of the dogs which had been admitted into the house and were stretched before the fire, roused up and growled.“They hear him, ma’am, and if we were to let them out, would soon be at him. No, no, John, sit still and put down your rifle: we can’t afford to hurt wolves; their skins won’t fetch a half-dollar, and their flesh is not fit for a dog, let alone a Christian. Let the vermin howl till he’s tired; he’ll be off to the woods again before daylight.”“There is certainly something very melancholy and dreadful to me in that howl,” said Emma; “it frightens me.”“What, Emma, afraid?” said Alfred, going to her; “why yes, really she trembles; why, my dear Emma, do you recollect how frightened you and Mary were at the noise of the frogs when you first came here; you got used to it very soon, and so you will to the howl of a wolf.”“There is some difference, Alfred,” replied Emma, shuddering as the howl was repeated. “I don’t know how it is,” said she, rallying her spirits, “but I believe it was reading Little Red Riding Hood when I was a child, which has given me such a horror of a wolf; I shall get over it very soon, I have no doubt.”“I must say, that it does not create the most agreeable sensation in my mind,” observed Mrs Campbell, “but I was aware of what we were to encounter when we came here, and if it is only to be annoyed with the cry of a wild beast, we may consider that we get off very cheaply.”“I should feel much more at ease, if all the rifles were loaded,” said Mary Percival, in her usual quiet way.“And I too,” said Emma.“Well, then, if that will at all relieve your minds, it is easily done,” said Mr Campbell; “let us all load our rifles, and put them back in their rests.”“Mine’s loaded,” said John.“And the rest soon shall be,” said Alfred, “even the three appropriated for your use, mother and cousins. Now don’t you feel some satisfaction in knowing that you can load and fire them yourselves? the practice you had during the fine weather has not been thrown away, has it, dear Emma?”“No, it has not, and I am very glad that I did learn it; I am a coward in apprehension, Alfred, but, perhaps, if I were put to the test, I should behave better.”“That I really believe,” replied Alfred; “a gale of wind at sea sounds very awful when down below jerking about in your hammock, but when on deck, you don’t care a fig about it. Now the rifles are all loaded, and we may go to bed and sleep sound.” They did retire to rest, but all parties did not sleep very sound; the howling of one wolf was answered by another; Emma and Mary embraced each other, and shuddered as they heard the sounds, and it was long before they forgot their alarm and were asleep.
It was on the Saturday evening, when they had all assembled round the fire, for it was more cold than it had hitherto been, that the moaning of the wind among the trees of the forest announced a gale of wind from the northward.
“We shall have it soon,” observed Martin, “winter mostly comes in with a gale.”
“Yes; and this appears as if it would be a strong gale,” replied Alfred. “Hark! how the boughs of the trees are sawing and cracking against each other.”
“I reckon we may get our snow-shoes out of the store-house, John,” said Martin, “and then we shall see how you can get over the ground with them when you go out hunting. You have not shot a moose yet.”
“Is the moose the same as the elk, Martin?” said Henry.
“I do not think it is, sir; yet I’ve heard both names given to the animal.”
“Have you ever shot any?” said Mrs Campbell.
“Yes, ma’am; many a one. They’re queer animals; they don’t run like the other deer, but they trot as fast as the others run, so it comes to the same thing. They are very shy, and difficult to get near, except in the heavy snow, and then their weight will not allow them to get over it, as the lighter deer can; they sink up to their shoulders, and flounder about till they are overtaken. You see, Master Percival, the moose can’t put on snow-shoes like we can, and that gives us the advantage over the animal.”
“Are they dangerous animals, Martin?” inquired Mary.
“Every large animal is more or less dangerous when it turns to bay, miss. A moose’s horns sometimes weigh fifty pounds, and it is a strong animal to boot; but it can’t do anything when the snow is deep. You’ll find it good eating, at all events, when we bring one in.”
“I’ll bring one,” said John, who was cleaning his rifle.
“I daresay you will, as soon as you can manage your snow-shoes,” replied Martin. “The wind is getting up higher. I guess you’ll not find your way back to Malachi’s lodge, Master John, as you thought to do to-morrow morning.”
“It is certainly a dreadful night,” observed Mrs Campbell; “and I feel the cold very sensibly.”
“Yes, ma’am; but as soon as the snow is down, you’ll be warmer.”
“It is time to go to bed,” observed Mr Campbell, “so put away your work; and, Henry, give me down the bible.”
During that night the gale increased to almost a hurricane; the trees of the forest clashed and crackled, groaned and sawed their long arms against each other, creating an unusual and almost appalling noise; the wind howled round the palisades and fluttered the strips of bark on the roof, and as they all lay in bed, they could not sleep from the noise outside, and the increased feeling of cold. It was also the first trial of this new house in severe weather, and some of the wakeful party were anxiously watching the result. Towards the morning the storm abated, and everything was again quiet. In consequence of the restless night which they had passed they were not so early as usual. Emma and Mary, when they came out of their room, found Martin and Alfred up and very busy with shovels; and, to their astonishment, they perceived that the snow was at least three feet deep on the ground, and in some places had been drifted up higher than their heads.
“Why, Alfred!” cried Emma; “how shall we be able to go after the cows this morning? This is, indeed, winter come on with little warning.”
“It still snows,” observed Mary; “not much, indeed, but the sky is very black.”
“Yes, miss, we shall have some more of it yet,” observed Martin. “Mr Campbell and Mr Henry have gone to the store-house for more shovels, for we must work hard, and clear a footpath, and then get the snow up against the palisades.”
“What a sudden change,” said Emma; “I wish the sky would clear, and then I should not care.”
“It will to-morrow, Miss Emma, I dare say; but the snow must come down first.”
Martin and Alfred had only time to clear a path to the store-house. Mr Campbell and Henry returned with more shovels, and as soon as breakfast was over, they commenced work. As for Mary and Emma going to milk the cows, that was impossible. Martin undertook that task until they had cleared a pathway to the hunter’s lodge, in which the animals were shut up every night.
By the advice of Martin, the snow next the palisades was piled up against the palings like a wall, as high as they could reach or throw it, by which means they got rid of the snow about the house, and at the same time formed a barrier against the freezing winds which they had to expect. All worked hard; Percival and John were of great use, and even Mrs Campbell and the girls assisted collecting the remainder of the snow, and clearing it off the window-sills and other parts. By noon the snow left off falling, the sky cleared up, and the sun shone bright, although it gave out but little warmth.
After dinner they renewed their labours, and commenced clearing away a path to the lodge, where the cows were locked in, and before nightfall they had accomplished their task as far as the bridge over the stream, which was about half-way.
It had been a day of great fatigue, and they were glad to retire to rest. Mrs Campbell and the girls had put an additional supply of blankets and skins upon the beds, for the cold was now intense, and the thermometer stood far below the freezing point.
The following morning they resumed their task; the sky was still unclouded, and the sun shone out clear and bright. By dinnertime the path to the cow-house had been completed; and the men then employed themselves in carrying as much firewood as they could, before it was dark, within the palisades.
“Well,” observed Alfred, “now things may go on as usual within doors; and what have we to do out, Martin?”
“You must first get on your snow-shoes, and learn to walk in them,” observed Martin; “or, otherwise, you’ll be a prisoner as well as the ladies. You see, John, you’re not at Malachi’s lodge.”
“Go to-morrow,” replied John.
“No; not to-morrow, for I must go with you,” said Martin; “I cannot trust you for finding your way; and I cannot go to-morrow nor the next day either. We must kill our beef to-morrow; there’s no fear but it will keep all the winter now, and we shall save our hay.”
“My larder is but poorly furnished,” observed Mrs Campbell.
“Never mind, ma’am, we’ll soon have something in it, which will save our beef. In another week you shall have it well stocked.”
“John,” said Mr Campbell, “recollect you must not go away without Martin.”
“I won’t,” replied John.
All the game in the larder having been consumed, they sat down to salt-pork and some of the fish which had been cured. The latter was pronounced to be excellent.
“What is the name of this fish, Martin?”
“It is called the white-fish,” replied Martin, “and I have heard gentry from the old country say that they have none better, if any so good.”
“It is certainly most excellent,” replied Mr Campbell, “and we will not forget to have a good provision for next winter, if it pleases God to spare our lives.”
“Where were you born, Martin?” said Henry as they were sitting round the kitchen fire, as usual in the evening.
“Why, Mr Henry, I was born at Quebec. My father was a corporal in the army under General Wolfe, and was wounded in the great battle fought between him and the Frenchman Montcalm.”
“In which both generals were killed, but the victory was to us.”
“So I’ve heard, sir,” replied Martin. “My mother was an Englishwoman, and I was born about four years after the surrender of Quebec. My mother died soon afterwards, but my father was alive about five years ago, I believe. I can’t exactly say, as I was for three or four years in the employ of the Fur Company, and when I returned, I found that he was dead.”
“And you have been a hunter all your life?”
“Not all my life, and not exactly a hunter. I call myself a trapper, but I still am both. I first was out with the Indians when I was about fourteen, for you see my father wanted to make me a drummer, and I could not stand that; so I said to him, ‘Father, I won’t be a drummer.’ ‘Well,’ says he, ‘Martin, you must help yourself, for all my interest lies in the army.’ ‘So I will,’ says I; ‘father, I’m off for the woods.’ ‘Well,’ says he, ‘just as you like, Martin.’ So one fine day I wished him good-bye, and did not see him again for more than two years.”
“Well, and what took place then?”
“Why, I brought home three or four packages of good skins, and sold them well. Father was so pleased, that he talked of turning trapper himself, but, as I told the old man, a man with a lame leg—for he had been wounded in the leg, and halted—would not make his livelihood by hunting in the woods of Canada.”
“Was your father still in the army?”
“No, ma’am, he was not in the army; but he was employed in the storekeeper’s department; they gave him the berth on account of his wound.”
“Well; go on, Martin.”
“I haven’t much more to say, ma’am. I brought home my furs, sold them, and father helped me to spend the money as long as he was alive, and very welcome he was to his share. I felt rather queer when I came back from the Fur Company and found that the old man was dead, for I had looked forward with pleasure to the old man’s welcome, and his enjoying his frolic with me as usual.”
“I’m afraid those frolics were not very wise, Martin.”
“No, sir, they were very foolish, I believe; but I fear it will always be the case with us trappers. We are like sailors, we do not know what to do with money when we get it; so we throw it away, and the sooner the better, for it is our enemy while we have it. I assure you, sir, that I used to feel quite happy when all my money was gone, and I was setting off to the woods again. It is a hard life, but a life that unfits me for any other; a life which you become very fond of. I don’t mind being here with you by way of a change; indeed, as long as there is hunting, it is almost as good as if I were in the woods, but else I think I shall die a trapper.”
“But, Martin,” said Mr Campbell, “how much more wise it would be to put your money by, and after a time purchase a farm and settle down a steady man with property, perhaps married and the father of a family.”
“Perhaps it might be; but if I do not like it so well as trapping, I don’t see why I should do so; it would be changing my life to please others and not myself.”
“That’s very true, Martin,” said Alfred, laughing.
“Perhaps Martin may change his mind before he is an old man,” replied Mrs Campbell. “Dear me! what noise was that?” exclaimed Mrs Campbell, as a melancholy howl was heard without.
“Only a rascally wolf, ma’am,” said Martin: “we must expect the animals to be about us now that the snow has fallen, and the winter has set in.”
“A wolf! are they not dangerous, Martin?” inquired Mary Percival.
“That depends, miss, how hungry they may be; but they are not very fond of attacking a human being; if we had any sheep outside, I fancy that they would stand a bad chance.”
The howl was repeated, when one or two of the dogs which had been admitted into the house and were stretched before the fire, roused up and growled.
“They hear him, ma’am, and if we were to let them out, would soon be at him. No, no, John, sit still and put down your rifle: we can’t afford to hurt wolves; their skins won’t fetch a half-dollar, and their flesh is not fit for a dog, let alone a Christian. Let the vermin howl till he’s tired; he’ll be off to the woods again before daylight.”
“There is certainly something very melancholy and dreadful to me in that howl,” said Emma; “it frightens me.”
“What, Emma, afraid?” said Alfred, going to her; “why yes, really she trembles; why, my dear Emma, do you recollect how frightened you and Mary were at the noise of the frogs when you first came here; you got used to it very soon, and so you will to the howl of a wolf.”
“There is some difference, Alfred,” replied Emma, shuddering as the howl was repeated. “I don’t know how it is,” said she, rallying her spirits, “but I believe it was reading Little Red Riding Hood when I was a child, which has given me such a horror of a wolf; I shall get over it very soon, I have no doubt.”
“I must say, that it does not create the most agreeable sensation in my mind,” observed Mrs Campbell, “but I was aware of what we were to encounter when we came here, and if it is only to be annoyed with the cry of a wild beast, we may consider that we get off very cheaply.”
“I should feel much more at ease, if all the rifles were loaded,” said Mary Percival, in her usual quiet way.
“And I too,” said Emma.
“Well, then, if that will at all relieve your minds, it is easily done,” said Mr Campbell; “let us all load our rifles, and put them back in their rests.”
“Mine’s loaded,” said John.
“And the rest soon shall be,” said Alfred, “even the three appropriated for your use, mother and cousins. Now don’t you feel some satisfaction in knowing that you can load and fire them yourselves? the practice you had during the fine weather has not been thrown away, has it, dear Emma?”
“No, it has not, and I am very glad that I did learn it; I am a coward in apprehension, Alfred, but, perhaps, if I were put to the test, I should behave better.”
“That I really believe,” replied Alfred; “a gale of wind at sea sounds very awful when down below jerking about in your hammock, but when on deck, you don’t care a fig about it. Now the rifles are all loaded, and we may go to bed and sleep sound.” They did retire to rest, but all parties did not sleep very sound; the howling of one wolf was answered by another; Emma and Mary embraced each other, and shuddered as they heard the sounds, and it was long before they forgot their alarm and were asleep.
Chapter Sixteen.Seasons for Contentment.The next morning was bright and clear, and when Emma and Mary went out, attended by Alfred, to go and milk the cows, although the cold was intense, everything looked so brilliant and sparkling in the sunshine that they regained their spirits. The lake was still unfrozen, and its waters, which were of an azure blue, contrasted with the whole of the country covered with snow, and the spruce firs with their branches loaded presented an alternate layer of pure white and of the darkest green. Birds there were none to be seen or heard. All was quiet, so quiet that as they stepped along the path which had been cleared away to the cow-house, they almost started at the sound of their own voices, which the atmosphere rendered more peculiarly sonorous and ringing. Alfred had his rifle on his shoulder, and walked in front of his cousins.“I have come to prove that all your fears are groundless, my dear Emma, and that you need not have any alarm about a skulking, cowardly wolf,” said Alfred.“Well, that may be,” replied Emma, “but still we are very glad of your company.”They arrived at the cow-house without any adventure, let loose Sancho, who had been tied up, as it was decided that the dog should remain at home with the others, and proceeded to milk the cows. Having finished that task and supplied them with fodder, Mary Percival observed, as they were retracing their steps, “I must say that it would not only be more convenient, but more agreeable if the cows were kept nearer to the house.”“It would be, certainly,” replied Alfred. “It is a pity that there is not a cow-shed within the palisades; but we have no means of making one at present. Next year, when my father has purchased his horses and his sheep, which he talks of doing, we are to build a regular yard and sheds for all the animals close to the house, and palisaded round as the house now is, with a passage from one palisade to the other. Then it will be very convenient; but ‘Rome was not built in one day,’ and we must, therefore, wait another winter.”“And be devoured by the wolves in the meantime,” replied Emma, laughing.“Why, you are getting over your fright already, Emma.”“Yes; I feel bold, now there is nothing to be afraid of.” The remainder of the week was passed away in practising upon the snow-shoes by the males of the party, the women scarcely ever venturing out of doors, as the cold was very severe. Mary and Emma were accompanied by Alfred for the first three or four days; and after that, notwithstanding that the howling of the wolves was heard every night, they took courage when they found that the animals never made their appearance by daylight, and went as before to milk the cows by themselves. On the Saturday, they were in the hopes of seeing old Malachi Bone, but he did not make his appearance, and John, who could now get on very well in his snow-shoes, became very impatient. Alfred and Martin were also very anxious to see the old man, that they might ascertain if he had made any discoveries relative to the Indians. Sunday, as usual, was a day of rest from labour; the services were read by Mr Campbell, and the evening passed in serious conversation. Mr Campbell, although usually in good spirits, was certainly not so on that evening. Whether it was that the severity of the winter which had set in and the known long duration of it which they had to encounter had an effect upon his spirits, he was melancholy as well as serious. He more than once referred to their former residence when in England, which was a very unusual thing for him to do, and by degrees the conversation was turned in that direction, and, although no one said so, they all felt what a change there was in their present position from that which they had been forced to leave. Mrs Campbell, who perceived that a gloom was gathering over the whole party, made several remarks tending to reconcile them to their present lot, and, after a time Mr Campbell observed, “Perhaps, my dear children, it may be a divine mercy which has sent you here to this wilderness; true it is that we are removed from civilisation, and shut up here by a severe winter, deprived of the enjoyments and pleasures which were to be found in the society which we were compelled to leave; but let us also bear in mind that we are removed from the many temptations which might have there assailed us.”“But still, papa, you would be very glad if circumstances would permit us to return to England; would you not?” said Percival.“Yes, my child, I should, and even if I had remained here so long as to have become attached to the place and to the isolation which at first is felt so irksome, I would still return to England and to society, if I had the means. As Christians, we are not to fly from the world and its temptations, but to buckle on our armour, and, putting our trust in Him who will protect us, fight the good fight; that is, doing our duty in that state of life to which it shall please God to call us.”“But if ever we were to return to England, there would be no chance of our living as we did before we left it, would there, papa?”“I see none, my dear boy; but we never know what is in store for us. Should any of us ever return, I presume it would be to live in a more humble way; and for my part, I should prefer that it were so, for although I trust I did not greatly misuse that wealth which I so long supposed to be mine, I should not be sorry to have much less, and therefore less responsibility.”“Indeed, my dear Campbell, imperfect as we all are, I do not believe that many could have made a better use of it than you did.”“I thought so at the time, my dear,” replied Mr Campbell, “but since it has been lost to me, I have often thought that I might have done more good with it. But the fact is, my dear children, there is nothing so dangerous to our eternal welfare as great wealth; it tends to harden the heart by affording the means of constant self-indulgence:—under such circumstances, man is apt to become selfish, easily satisfied with his own works, and too proud to see his errors. Did you observe in the Litany, which I read at this morning’s service, how very appropriately is inserted the prayer for deliverance under the perils of wealth?“‘In all time of our tribulation, in all time of ourwealth, in the hour of death, and in the day of judgment, good Lord deliver us.’“Examine this, my dear children: in all time of our tribulation,—that is in poverty and distress, and perhaps famishing from want (and in few positions are people so incited to crime),thenin all time of our wealth, evidently and distinctly placing wealth as more dangerous to the soul’s welfare than the extremest poverty and its accompanying temptations; and observe, only exceeded by the most critical of all dangerous positions, when all has been done and nothing can be undone,—the hour of death, followed by the day of judgment.” Mr Campbell ceased speaking, and there was a pause for a minute or two in the conversation, when Mary Percival said, “What, then, my dear uncle, do you consider as the most enviable position in life?”“I consider a moderate independence as the most enviable; not occupied in trade, as the spirit of barter is too apt to make us bend to that which is actually fraud. I should say, a country gentleman living on his own property and among his own tenants, employing the poor around him, holds a position in which he has the least temptation to do wrong, and the most opportunities of doing good.”“I agree with you, my dear Campbell,” said his wife; “and yet how few are satisfied even with that lot.”“Because the craving after wealth is so strong, that everyone would have more than he hath, and few men will be content. This desire of aggrandisement overcomes and masters us; and yet, what can be more absurd than to witness the care and anxiety of those to gain riches, who have already more, perhaps, than is necessary for their wants,—thus ‘heaping up riches, not knowing who may gather them,’ and endangering the soul to obtain that which they must leave behind them when they die. Others amass wealth, not actuated by the avarice of hoarding it up, but by the appetite for expending it; who collect unjustly that they may lavish profusely; these are equally foolish, and how important is that lesson given in the Scriptures.” Mr Campbell opened the Bible which lay before him and read—“‘And he spake a parable unto them. The ground of a certain rich man brought forth plentifully.“‘And he said, What shall I do? because I have no room where to bestow my fruits.“‘And he said: This will I do; I will pull down my barns and build greater, and there will I bestow all my fruits and my goods.“‘And I will say to my soul: Soul, thou hast much goods laid up for many years, take thine ease; eat, drink, and be merry.“‘But God said unto him: Thou fool, this night thy soul shall be required of thee.’”After a short silence, Mr Campbell observed, “I have often reflected since I have been here upon what might have been our position had we decided upon remaining in England. We might at this moment have been in the greatest distress, even wanting a meal; and I have, therefore, often thanked God that he left us the means of coming here and providing for ourselves as we have done, and as I have no doubt shall, with His blessing, continue to do. How much better off are we at this moment than many thousands of our countrymen who remain in England? How many are starving? How many are driven into crime from want? while we have a good roof over our heads, sufficient clothing and more than sufficient food. We have, therefore, great reason to thank God for the mercies He has vouchsafed to us; He has heard our prayer, ‘Give us this day our daily bread.’ Yes,” continued Mr Campbell, “‘Give us this day our daily bread,’ is all that we are taught to ask for; and it comprehends all; and yet how heartlessly is this pronounced by many of those who do repeat their daily prayers. So is the blessing asked at meals, which is by too many considered as a mere matter of form. They forget, that He who gives can also take away; and in their presumption, suppose their own ability and exertion to have been the sole means of procuring themselves a daily supply of food; thanking themselves rather than the Giver of all good. How many thousands are there who have been supplied with more than they require from their cradle down to their grave, without any grateful feeling towards Heaven; considering the butcher and baker as their providers, and the debt cancelled as soon as the bills are paid. How different must be the feeling of the poor cottager, who is uncertain whether his labour may procure him and his family a meal for the morrow, who often suffers privation and hunger, and, what is more painful, witnesses the sufferings of those he loves. How earnest must be his prayer when he cries, ‘Give us this day our daily bread.’”This conversation had a very strong effect upon the party, and when they retired to rest, which they did shortly after, they laid their heads upon their pillows not only with resignation, but with thankfulness for the mercies which had been vouchsafed to them, and felt that in the wilderness, they were under the eye of a watchful and gracious Providence.
The next morning was bright and clear, and when Emma and Mary went out, attended by Alfred, to go and milk the cows, although the cold was intense, everything looked so brilliant and sparkling in the sunshine that they regained their spirits. The lake was still unfrozen, and its waters, which were of an azure blue, contrasted with the whole of the country covered with snow, and the spruce firs with their branches loaded presented an alternate layer of pure white and of the darkest green. Birds there were none to be seen or heard. All was quiet, so quiet that as they stepped along the path which had been cleared away to the cow-house, they almost started at the sound of their own voices, which the atmosphere rendered more peculiarly sonorous and ringing. Alfred had his rifle on his shoulder, and walked in front of his cousins.
“I have come to prove that all your fears are groundless, my dear Emma, and that you need not have any alarm about a skulking, cowardly wolf,” said Alfred.
“Well, that may be,” replied Emma, “but still we are very glad of your company.”
They arrived at the cow-house without any adventure, let loose Sancho, who had been tied up, as it was decided that the dog should remain at home with the others, and proceeded to milk the cows. Having finished that task and supplied them with fodder, Mary Percival observed, as they were retracing their steps, “I must say that it would not only be more convenient, but more agreeable if the cows were kept nearer to the house.”
“It would be, certainly,” replied Alfred. “It is a pity that there is not a cow-shed within the palisades; but we have no means of making one at present. Next year, when my father has purchased his horses and his sheep, which he talks of doing, we are to build a regular yard and sheds for all the animals close to the house, and palisaded round as the house now is, with a passage from one palisade to the other. Then it will be very convenient; but ‘Rome was not built in one day,’ and we must, therefore, wait another winter.”
“And be devoured by the wolves in the meantime,” replied Emma, laughing.
“Why, you are getting over your fright already, Emma.”
“Yes; I feel bold, now there is nothing to be afraid of.” The remainder of the week was passed away in practising upon the snow-shoes by the males of the party, the women scarcely ever venturing out of doors, as the cold was very severe. Mary and Emma were accompanied by Alfred for the first three or four days; and after that, notwithstanding that the howling of the wolves was heard every night, they took courage when they found that the animals never made their appearance by daylight, and went as before to milk the cows by themselves. On the Saturday, they were in the hopes of seeing old Malachi Bone, but he did not make his appearance, and John, who could now get on very well in his snow-shoes, became very impatient. Alfred and Martin were also very anxious to see the old man, that they might ascertain if he had made any discoveries relative to the Indians. Sunday, as usual, was a day of rest from labour; the services were read by Mr Campbell, and the evening passed in serious conversation. Mr Campbell, although usually in good spirits, was certainly not so on that evening. Whether it was that the severity of the winter which had set in and the known long duration of it which they had to encounter had an effect upon his spirits, he was melancholy as well as serious. He more than once referred to their former residence when in England, which was a very unusual thing for him to do, and by degrees the conversation was turned in that direction, and, although no one said so, they all felt what a change there was in their present position from that which they had been forced to leave. Mrs Campbell, who perceived that a gloom was gathering over the whole party, made several remarks tending to reconcile them to their present lot, and, after a time Mr Campbell observed, “Perhaps, my dear children, it may be a divine mercy which has sent you here to this wilderness; true it is that we are removed from civilisation, and shut up here by a severe winter, deprived of the enjoyments and pleasures which were to be found in the society which we were compelled to leave; but let us also bear in mind that we are removed from the many temptations which might have there assailed us.”
“But still, papa, you would be very glad if circumstances would permit us to return to England; would you not?” said Percival.
“Yes, my child, I should, and even if I had remained here so long as to have become attached to the place and to the isolation which at first is felt so irksome, I would still return to England and to society, if I had the means. As Christians, we are not to fly from the world and its temptations, but to buckle on our armour, and, putting our trust in Him who will protect us, fight the good fight; that is, doing our duty in that state of life to which it shall please God to call us.”
“But if ever we were to return to England, there would be no chance of our living as we did before we left it, would there, papa?”
“I see none, my dear boy; but we never know what is in store for us. Should any of us ever return, I presume it would be to live in a more humble way; and for my part, I should prefer that it were so, for although I trust I did not greatly misuse that wealth which I so long supposed to be mine, I should not be sorry to have much less, and therefore less responsibility.”
“Indeed, my dear Campbell, imperfect as we all are, I do not believe that many could have made a better use of it than you did.”
“I thought so at the time, my dear,” replied Mr Campbell, “but since it has been lost to me, I have often thought that I might have done more good with it. But the fact is, my dear children, there is nothing so dangerous to our eternal welfare as great wealth; it tends to harden the heart by affording the means of constant self-indulgence:—under such circumstances, man is apt to become selfish, easily satisfied with his own works, and too proud to see his errors. Did you observe in the Litany, which I read at this morning’s service, how very appropriately is inserted the prayer for deliverance under the perils of wealth?
“‘In all time of our tribulation, in all time of ourwealth, in the hour of death, and in the day of judgment, good Lord deliver us.’
“Examine this, my dear children: in all time of our tribulation,—that is in poverty and distress, and perhaps famishing from want (and in few positions are people so incited to crime),thenin all time of our wealth, evidently and distinctly placing wealth as more dangerous to the soul’s welfare than the extremest poverty and its accompanying temptations; and observe, only exceeded by the most critical of all dangerous positions, when all has been done and nothing can be undone,—the hour of death, followed by the day of judgment.” Mr Campbell ceased speaking, and there was a pause for a minute or two in the conversation, when Mary Percival said, “What, then, my dear uncle, do you consider as the most enviable position in life?”
“I consider a moderate independence as the most enviable; not occupied in trade, as the spirit of barter is too apt to make us bend to that which is actually fraud. I should say, a country gentleman living on his own property and among his own tenants, employing the poor around him, holds a position in which he has the least temptation to do wrong, and the most opportunities of doing good.”
“I agree with you, my dear Campbell,” said his wife; “and yet how few are satisfied even with that lot.”
“Because the craving after wealth is so strong, that everyone would have more than he hath, and few men will be content. This desire of aggrandisement overcomes and masters us; and yet, what can be more absurd than to witness the care and anxiety of those to gain riches, who have already more, perhaps, than is necessary for their wants,—thus ‘heaping up riches, not knowing who may gather them,’ and endangering the soul to obtain that which they must leave behind them when they die. Others amass wealth, not actuated by the avarice of hoarding it up, but by the appetite for expending it; who collect unjustly that they may lavish profusely; these are equally foolish, and how important is that lesson given in the Scriptures.” Mr Campbell opened the Bible which lay before him and read—
“‘And he spake a parable unto them. The ground of a certain rich man brought forth plentifully.
“‘And he said, What shall I do? because I have no room where to bestow my fruits.
“‘And he said: This will I do; I will pull down my barns and build greater, and there will I bestow all my fruits and my goods.
“‘And I will say to my soul: Soul, thou hast much goods laid up for many years, take thine ease; eat, drink, and be merry.
“‘But God said unto him: Thou fool, this night thy soul shall be required of thee.’”
After a short silence, Mr Campbell observed, “I have often reflected since I have been here upon what might have been our position had we decided upon remaining in England. We might at this moment have been in the greatest distress, even wanting a meal; and I have, therefore, often thanked God that he left us the means of coming here and providing for ourselves as we have done, and as I have no doubt shall, with His blessing, continue to do. How much better off are we at this moment than many thousands of our countrymen who remain in England? How many are starving? How many are driven into crime from want? while we have a good roof over our heads, sufficient clothing and more than sufficient food. We have, therefore, great reason to thank God for the mercies He has vouchsafed to us; He has heard our prayer, ‘Give us this day our daily bread.’ Yes,” continued Mr Campbell, “‘Give us this day our daily bread,’ is all that we are taught to ask for; and it comprehends all; and yet how heartlessly is this pronounced by many of those who do repeat their daily prayers. So is the blessing asked at meals, which is by too many considered as a mere matter of form. They forget, that He who gives can also take away; and in their presumption, suppose their own ability and exertion to have been the sole means of procuring themselves a daily supply of food; thanking themselves rather than the Giver of all good. How many thousands are there who have been supplied with more than they require from their cradle down to their grave, without any grateful feeling towards Heaven; considering the butcher and baker as their providers, and the debt cancelled as soon as the bills are paid. How different must be the feeling of the poor cottager, who is uncertain whether his labour may procure him and his family a meal for the morrow, who often suffers privation and hunger, and, what is more painful, witnesses the sufferings of those he loves. How earnest must be his prayer when he cries, ‘Give us this day our daily bread.’”
This conversation had a very strong effect upon the party, and when they retired to rest, which they did shortly after, they laid their heads upon their pillows not only with resignation, but with thankfulness for the mercies which had been vouchsafed to them, and felt that in the wilderness, they were under the eye of a watchful and gracious Providence.