Chapter VII (2)

Kingston is the oldest town in Upper Canada by many years. The white man found his way here more than a century before any settlement in the west was made or thought of. Small expeditions had from time to time penetrated the vast wilderness far to the west, either for the purpose of trading with the Indians, or led by some zealous priest who sought for the glory of God to bring the wandering tribes into the fold of the Roman Church. The untiring energy and zeal displayed by these early Fathers, together with the hardships, dangers and privations they endured, form one of the most interesting pages of adventure in our country's history. The crafty and industrious French Governor, De Courcelles, in order to put a stop to the encroachments of the Five Nations, despatched a messenger from Quebec to their chief to inform him that he had some business of great importance to communicate, and wished them to proceed to Cataraqui, where he would meet them. As soon as the Indian deputies arrived, a council was held. The Governor informed them that he was going to build a fort there, to serve principally as a depot for merchandise; and to facilitate the trade that was springing up between them. The chiefs, ignorant of the real intention of the wily Governor readily agreed to a proposition which seemed intended for their advantage. But the object was far from what the Indians expected, and was really to create a barrier against them in future wars.

While measures were being completed to build the fort Courcelles was recalled, and Count de Frontenac sent out in his place. Frontenac carried out the designs of his predecessor; and in 1672 completed the fort, which received and for many years retained his name.

Father Charlevoix, who journeyed through Western Canada in the year 1720, thus describes Fort Cataraqui. "This fort is square, with four bastions built with stone, and the ground it occupies is a quarter of a league in compass. Its situation is really something very pleasant. The sides of the view present every way a landscape well varied, and it is the same at the entrance of Lake Ontario, which is but a small league distant. It is full of islands of different sizes, all well wooded, and nothing bounds the horizon on that side. The Lake was sometimes called St. Louis, afterwards Frontenac, as well as the fort of Cataraqui, of which the Count de Frontenac was the founder, but insensibly the Lake has regained its ancient name Ontario, which is Huron or Iroquois, and the fort that of the place where it is built. The soil from this place to la Sallette appears something barren, but this is only in the borders, it being very good further up. There is over against the fort a very pretty island in the middle of the river. They put some swine into it, which have multiplied, and given it the name of Isle du Porcs.

"There are two other islands somewhat smaller, which are lower, and half a league distant from each other. One is called Cedars, the other Hart's Island. The Bay of Cataraqui is double; that is to say, that almost in the middle of it there is a point that runs out a great way, under which there is a good anchorage for large barks. M. de la Salle, so famous for his discoveries and his misfortunes, who was lord of Cataraqui, and governor of the fort, had two or three of them, which were sunk in this place, and remain there still. Behind the fort is a marsh, where there is a great plenty of wild fowl. This is a benefit to and employment for the garrison. There was formerly a great trade here, especially with the Iroquois, and it was to entice them to, as well as to hinder their carrying their skins to the English and keep these savages in awe, that the fort was built. But the trade did not last long, and the fort has not hindered the barbarians from doing us a great deal of mischief. They have still families here, in the outside of the place, and there are also some Missisaguas, an Algonquin nation, which still have a village on the west side of Lake Ontario, another at Niagara, and a third in the strait." Such is the description we have of Kingston a century and a half ago. The Mohawk name for it is Gu-doi-o-qui, or, "Fort in the Water."

I am unable, from any information I can get, to give the origin of the name of our beautiful bay. It seems to have borne its present name at a very early date in the history of the country. It is supposed by some to be an Indian name with a French accent. I am disposed, however, to think that it came from the early French voyageurs, from the fact that not only the bay, but an island, are mentioned by the name of Quinte. The usual pronunciation until a few years ago was _Kanty._

In the year 1780, on the 14th day of October, and again in July, 1814, a most remarkable phenomenon occurred, the like of which was never before witnessed in the country. "At noonday a pitchy darkness completely obscured the light of the sun, continuing for about ten minutes at a time, and being frequently repeated during the afternoon. In the interval between each mysterious eclipse, dense masses of black clouds streaked with yellow drove athwart the darkened sky, with fitful gusts of wind. Thunder, lightning, black rain, and showers of ashes added to the terrors of the scene, and when the sun appeared its colour was a bright red." The people were filled with fear, and thought that the end of the world was at hand. These two periods are known as the "dark days."

Many years after this, another phenomenon not less wonderful occurred, which I had the satisfaction of seeing; and although forty-five years have elapsed, the terrifying scene is as firmly fixed in my memory as though it had happened but an hour ago. I refer to the meteoric shower of the 13th of November, 1833. My father had been from home, and on his return, about midnight, his attention was arrested by the frequent fall of meteors, or stars, to use the common phrase. The number rapidly increased; and the sight was so grand and beautiful that he came in and woke us all up, and then walked up the road and roused some of the neighbours. Such a display of heaven's fireworks was never seen before. If the air had been filled with rockets they would have been but match strokes compared to the incessant play of brilliant dazzling meteors that flashed across the sky, furrowing it so thickly with golden lines that the whole heaven seemed ablaze until the morning's sun shut out the scene. One meteor of large size remained sometime almost stationary in the zenith, emitting streams of light. I stood like a statue, and gazed with fear and awe up to the glittering sky. Millions of stars seemed to be dashing across the blue dome of heaven. In fact I thought the whole starry firmament was tumbling down to earth. The neighbours were terror struck: the more enlightened of them were awed at contemplating so vivid a picture of the Apocalyptic image--that of the stars of heaven falling to the earth, even as a fig tree casteth her untimely figs, when she is shaken by a mighty wind; while the cries of others, on a calm night like that, might have been heard for miles around.

Young and poor as Canada was half a century ago, she was not behind many of the older and more wealthy countries in enterprize. Her legislators were sound, practical men, who had the interest of their country at heart. Her merchants were pushing and intelligent; her farmers frugal and industrious. Under such auspices her success was assured. At an early day the Government gave material aid to every project that was calculated to foster and extend trade and commerce, as well as to open up and encourage the settlement of the country. Neither was individual enterprize behind in adopting the discoveries and improvements of the time, and in applying them not only to their own advantage but to that of the community at large. Four years after Fulton had made his successful experiment with steam as a propelling power for vessels on the Hudson, a small steamer was built and launched at Montreal; and in 1815 the keel of the first steamer that navigated the waters of Upper Canada was laid at Bath. She was named the _Frontenac_.

The village of Bath, as you all know, is situated on the Bay of Quinte, about thirteen miles west of Kingston. It was formerly known as Ernesttown. Those of you who have passed that way will remember that about a mile west of the village there is a bend in the shore round which the road leads, and that a short gravelly beach juts out, inclosing a small pond of water. At the end of this, west, stands an old frame house, time-worn and dilapidated. Behind this house the steamer already mentioned was built, and three years later another known as the _Charlotte_ was launched here. [Footnote: I have often heard my father tell about going to see the launch of the _Charlotte_. He went on foot a round distance of over thirty miles.] Thousands of people were present, and the event was long remembered. They were, no doubt, marvellous things in those days--much more so, perhaps, than that huge mammoth of steam craft of later days, the _Great Eastern_, is to us. I cannot give the dimensions of these boats, but it is safe to say that they were not large. Their exploits in the way of speed were considered marvellous, and formed the topic of conversation in many a home. A trip in one of them down the bay to Kingston was a greater feat then than a voyage to Liverpool is now; and they went but little faster than a man could walk.

Early travellers predicted that Ernesttown would be a place of importance, but their predictions have come to naught. It reached many years ago the culminating point in its history. Still, in the progress of our country the above must give it more than a passing interest. Gourlay speaks of Bath in 1811, and says, "The village contains a valuable social library"--a thing at that date which could not be found probably in any other part of the Province.

Previous to the introduction of steamers, which gave a wonderful impetus to trade, and completely revolutionized it, the traffic of the country was carried on under great disadvantages. Montreal and Quebec, the one the depot of merchandise and the other the centre of the lumber trade, were far away, and could only be reached during six months in the year by the St. Lawrence, whose navigation, on account of its rapids, was difficult and dangerous. There was but little money, and business was conducted on an understood basis of exchange or barter. During the winter months the farmer threshed his grain and brought it with his pork and potash to the merchant, who gave him goods for his family in return. The merchant was usually a lumberman as well, and he busied himself in the winter time in getting out timber and hauling it to the bay, where it was rafted and made ready for moving early in the spring. As soon as navigation was open, barges and batteaux were loaded with potash and produce, and he set sail with these and his rafts down the river. It was always a voyage of hardship and danger. If good fortune attended him, he would, in the course of three or four weeks make Montreal, and Quebec with his rafts two or three weeks later. Then commenced the labour of disposing of his stuff, settling up the year's accounts, and purchasing more goods, with which his boats were loaded and despatched for home.

The task of the country merchant in making his selections then, was much more difficult than it is now. Moreover, as he could reach his market but once in the year, his purchases had to be governed by this fact. He had to cater to the entire wants of his customers, and was in the letter, as well as the spirit, a general merchant, for he kept dry goods, groceries, crockery, hardware, tools, implements, drugs-- everything, in fact, from a needle to an anchor. The return trip with his merchandise was slow and difficult. The smooth stretches of the river were passed with the oar and sail, the currents with poles, while the more difficult rapids were overcome by the men, assisted with ox- teams. Thus he worried his way through, and by the time he got home two or three months had been consumed. During the winter months, while the western trader was busy in collecting his supplies for the spring, the general merchant of Montreal, a veritable nabob in those days, locked up his shop and set off with a team for Upper Canada, and spent it in visiting his customers. The world moved slowly then. The ocean was traversed by sailing ships--they brought our merchandise and mails. In winter, the only communication with Montreal and Quebec was by stage, and in the fall and spring it was maintained with no small difficulty. One of the wonders of swift travelling of the day was the feat of Weller, the mail contractor and stage proprietor, in sending Lord Durham through from Toronto to Montreal in thirty-six hours. Many a strange adventure could be told of stage rides between Toronto and Quebec, and of the merchants in their annual trips down the St. Lawrence, on rafts and in batteaux; and it seems a pity that so much that would amuse and interest readers of the present day has never been chronicled.

There was one thing brought about by those batteaux voyages for which the farmer is by no means thankful. The men used to fill their beds with fresh straw on their return, and by this means the Canadian thistle found its way to Upper Canada.

As Canada had not been behind in employing steam in navigation, so she was not behind in employing it in another direction. Stephenson built the first railroad between Liverpool and Manchester in 1829. Some years later, 1836, we had a railway in Canada, and now we have over 5,000 miles in the Dominion. These two agencies have entirely changed the character both of our commerce and mail service. The latter, in those early days, in the Midland district, was a private speculation of one Huff, who travelled the country and delivered papers and letters at the houses. This was a very irregular and unsatisfactory state of things, but was better than no mail at all. Then came the wonderful improvement of a weekly mail carried by a messenger on horseback; and as time wore on, the delivery became more frequent, post-offices multiplied, postage rates were reduced, and correspondence increased. There were two other enterprises which the country took hold of very soon after their discovery. I refer to the canals and the telegraph. The first, the Lachine Canal, was commenced in 1821, and the Welland in 1824. The Montreal Telegraph Company was organized in 1847. So that in those four great discoveries which have revolutionized the trade of the world, it will be seen that our young country kept abreast with the times, and her advance, not only in those improvements, but in every branch of science and art, has been marvellous.

The Midland District, so named because of its central position, was one of the largest districts in the Province; but county after county was cut away from it on all sides, until it was greatly shorn of its proportions. Before this clipping had begun, the courts were held alternately in Kingston and Adolphustown. The old Court-House still stands [Footnote: It has been taken down since, and a town hall for the use of the township, erected on its site.] and is as melancholy a monument of its former importance as one could wish to see. The town which the original surveyors laid out here, and which early writers mention, I have never been able to find more of than the plot. It must have flourished long before my day.

But what about Prince Edward county? Of course you know that it was set off in 1833, and that the first Court of Assize was held in this town-- then Hallowell--in 1834. I am not able to say much about its early history; though I am sure there are many incidents of very great interest connected with it, probably lost for the want of some friendly hand. Land was taken up in this neighbourhood by Barker, Washburn, Spencer, Vandusen, and others about the year 1790. Patents were issued by the Government in 1802-3-4. At a meeting held at Eyre's Inn, on the 14th of February, 1818, at which Ebenezer Washburn, Esq., presided, I learn that there was in the township of Hallowell at that time but two brick-houses, one carding, and fulling mill, one Methodist Chapel--now known as the old Chapel at Conger's Mill--one Quaker Meeting House. Preparations were being made to build a church. [Footnote: Known as St. Mary Magdalene. The Rev. W. Macaulay, I think, was the first rector, and he lived to a good old age.] Orchards were beginning to be planted, and other improvements. The first settlers paid at the rate of one shilling per acre for their land. Four-fifths of the entire Midland district, in 1818, was a dense forest. We can hardly realise the fact that seventy years ago there was probably not a soul living in this fair county.

Let us skip over a period of about forty years from the first settlement, and have a look at the people and how they lived. The log houses, in very many cases had been transformed into comfortable and commodious dwellings. The log barns and hovels, too, had given place to larger frame barns and sheds, many of which are still to be seen around the country. The changes wrought in those short years were wonderful, and having followed the pioneer hither and noted his progress, let us step into one of these homes and take a seat with the family gathered around the spacious fire-place, with its glowing fire blazing up cheerfully through the heaped-up wood, and note the comforts and amusements of the contented circle. How clearly the picture stands out to many of us. How well we remember the time when, with young and vigorous step, we set our feet in the path which has led us farther and farther away.

"A thousand fantasies
Begin to throng into my memory,
Of calling shapes and beckoning shadows."

Now, please understand me in this matter. We have not a particle of sympathy with the ordinary grumbler, by which we mean that class of persons whose noses are not only stuck up at any and every encroachment on their worn-out ideas of what is right and wrong, but, like crabbed terriers, snap at the heels of every man that passes. Nor do we wish you to think that we place our fathers on a higher plane of intellectual power and worth than we have reached or can reach. The world rolls on, and decade after decade adds to the accumulative brain force of humanity. Men of thought and power through all the ages have scattered seed, and while much of it has come to naught, a kernel here and there, possessed of vital force, has germinated and grown. You remember what the great Teacher said about "a rain of mustard seed which a man took and sowed in his field, which indeed is the least of all seeds, but when it is grown it is the greatest among herbs, and becometh a tree, so that the birds of the air come and lodge in the branches thereof." Any man who looks around him must acknowledge that we are going ahead, but notwithstanding this, every careful observer cannot fail to see that there is growing up in our land a large amount of sham, and hence, as Isaiah tells us, it would be well for us to look more frequently "into the rock whence ye are hewn, and to the hole of the pit whence ye are digged." Let us not only treasure the recollection of the noble example which our fore-fathers set us, but let us imitate those sterling qualities which render their names dear to us.

"It is a common complaint perpetually reiterated," remarks a racy writer, "that the occupations of life are filled to overflowing; that the avenues to wealth or distinction are so crowded with competitors that it is hopeless to endeavour to make way in the dense and jostling masses. This desponding wail was doubtless heard when the young earth had scarcely commenced her career of glory, and it will be dolefully repeated by future generations to the end of time. Long before Cheops had planted the basement-stone of his pyramids, when Sphinx and Colossi had not yet been fashioned into their huge existence, and the untouched quarry had given out neither temple nor monument, the young Egyptian, as he looked along the Nile, may have mourned that he was born too late. Fate had done him injustice in withholding his individual being till the destinies of man were accomplished. His imagination exulted at what he might have been, had his chance been commensurate with his merits, but what remained for him now in this worn-out, battered, used-up hulk of a world, but to sorrow for the good times which had exhausted all resources?

"The mournful lamentation of antiquity has not been weakened in its transmission, and it is not more reasonable now than when it groaned by the Nile. There is always room enough in the world, and work waiting for willing hands. The charm that conquers obstacles and commands success is strong will and strong work. Application is the friend and ally of genius. The laborious scholar, the diligent merchant, the industrious mechanic, the hard-working farmer, are thriving men, and take rank in the world; while genius by itself lies in idle admiration of a fame that is ever prospective. The hare sleeps or amuses himself by the wayside, and the tortoise wins the race."

RANDOM RECOLLECTIONS OF EARLY DAYS.

PATERNAL MEMORIES--A VISIT TO THE HOME OF MY BOYHOOD--THE OLD QUAKER MEETING-HOUSE--FLASHES OF SILENCE--THE OLD BURYING GROUND--"TO THE MEMORY OF ELIZA"--GHOSTLY EXPERIENCES--HIVING THE BEES--ENCOUNTER WITH A BEAR--GIVING "THE MITTEN"--A "BOUNDARY QUESTION"--SONG OF THE BULLFROG--RING--SAGACITY OF ANIMALS--TRAINING DAYS--PICTURESQUE SCENERY OF THE BAY OF QUINTE--JOHN A. MACDONALD--A PERILOUS JOURNEY--AUNT JANE AND WILLET CASEY.

More than forty-five years have elapsed since my father departed this life, and left me a lad, the eldest of six children, to take his place, and assist my mother as well as I could in the management of affairs. Twenty years later mother was laid by his side, and before and since all my sisters have gone. For a number of years the only survivors of that once happy household, the memory of which is so fresh and dear to me, have been myself and brother. Upper Canada was a vastly different place at the time of my father's decease (1840) from what it is now. The opportunities he had when young were proportionately few. I have been a considerable wanderer in my day, and have had chances of seeing what the world has accomplished, and of contrasting it with his time and advantages. If his lines had fallen in another sphere of action he would have made his mark. As it was, during his short life--he died at the age of 42--he had with his own hands acquired an excellent farm of 250 acres, with a good, spacious, well-furnished house, barns, and out- buildings. His farm was a model of order and thorough tillage, well stocked with the best improved cattle, sheep, and hogs that could be had at that time, and all the implements were the newest that could be procured. He was out of debt, and therefore independent, and had money at interest. This, it seems to me, was something for a man to accomplish in twenty years. But this was not all. He was acknowledged to be a man of intelligence superior to most in those days, and was frequently consulted by neighbours and friends in matters of importance; a warm politician and a strict temperance man. He was one of the best speakers in the district, always in request at public meetings, and especially during an election campaign. Into political contests he entered with all his might, and would sometimes be away a week or more at a time, stumping--as they used to term it--the district. In politics he was a Reformer, and under the then existing circumstances I think I should have been one too. But the vexed questions that agitated the public mind then, and against which he fought and wrote, have been adjusted. An old co-worker of his said to me many years after at an election: "What a pity your father could not have seen that you would oppose the party he laboured so hard to build up. If a son of mine did it I would disinherit him as quick as I would shove a toad off a stick." I said to my old friend that I supposed the son had quite as good a right to form his opinions on certain matters as his father had. Political and religious prejudices are hard things to remove. I remember a deputation waiting on my father to get him to consent to be a candidate for an election which was on the eve of taking place, but he declined, on the ground that he was not prepared to assume so important a position then, nor did he feel that he had reached a point which would warrant him in leaving his business. He added that after a while, if his friends were disposed to confer such an honour upon him, he might consider it more favourably. Peter Perry was chosen, and I know my father worked hard for him, and the Tory candidate, Cartwright, was defeated. This reminds me of a little bit of banking history, which created some noise in the district at the time, but which is quite forgotten now. A number of leading farmers, of whom my father was one, conceived the idea of establishing a "Farmers' Joint Stock Bank," which was subsequently carried out, and a bank bearing that name was started in Bath. John S. Cartwright, the then member, through whom they expected to get a charter, and who was interested in the Commercial Bank at Kingston, failed to realize their expectations in that particular, and the new bank had to close its doors. The opening was premature, and cost the stockholders a considerable sum of money. This little banking episode helped to defeat Mr. Cartwright at the next election.

Over thirty years have passed since I left my old home, and change after change has occurred as the years rolled along, until I have become a stranger to nearly all the people of the neighbourhood, and feel strange where I used to romp and play in boyhood.

The houses and fields have changed, the woods have been pushed further back, and it is no longer the home that is fixed in my memory. My visits have consequently become less and less frequent. On one of these occasions I felt a strong inclination one Sabbath morning to visit the old Quaker Meeting House about three miles away. After making my toilette and breakfasting, I sallied forth, on foot and alone, through the fields and woods. The day was such as I would have selected from a thousand. It was towards the last of May--a season wherein if a man's heart fail to dance blithely, he must indeed be a victim of dulness. The sun was moving upward in his diurnal course, and had just acquired sufficient heat to render the shade of the wood desirable. The heaven was cloudless, and soft languor rested on the face of nature, stealing the mind's sympathy, and wooing it to the delights of repose. My mind was too much occupied with early recollections to do more than barely notice the splendour and the symphonies around me. The hum of the bee and the beetle, as they winged their swift flight onwards, the song of the robin and the meadow lark, as they tuned their throats to the praises of the risen sun, and the crowing of some distant chanticleer, moved lazily in the sluggish air. It was a season of general repose, just such a day, I think, as a saint would choose to assist his fancy in describing the sunny regions whither his thoughts delight to wander, or a poet would select to refine his ideas of the climate of Elysium. At length I arrived at the old meeting-house where I had often gone, when a lad with my father and mother.

It was a wooden building standing at a corner of the road, and was among the first places of worship erected in the Province. The effects of the beating storms of nearly half a century were stamped on the unpainted clapboards, and the shingles which projected just far enough over the plate to carry off the water, were worn and partially covered with moss. One would look in vain, for anything that could by any possibility be claimed as an ornament. Two small doors gave access to the interior, which was as plain and ugly as the exterior. A partition, with doors, that were let down during the time of worship, divided the room into equal parts, and separated the men and women. It was furnished with strong pine benches, with backs; and at the far side were two rows of elevated benches, which were occupied on both sides by leading members of the society. I have often watched the row of broad-brims on one hand, and the scoop bonnets on the other, with boyish interest, and wondered what particular thing in the room they gazed at so steadily, and why some of them twirled one thumb round the other with such regularity. On this occasion I entered quietly, and took a seat near the door. There were a number of familiar faces in the audience. Some whom I had known when young were growing grey, but many of the well-remembered faces were gone. The gravity of the audience and the solemn silence were very impressive; but still recollections of the past crowded from my mind the sacred object which had brought the people together. Now I looked at the old bayonet marks in the posts, made by the soldiers who had used it as a barrack immediately after the war of 1812. Next, the letters of all shapes and sizes cut by mischievous boys with their jacknives in the backs of the seats years ago arrested my attention, and brought to mind how weary I used to get; but as I always sat with my father, I dared not try my hand at carving. Then, the thought came: Where are those boys now? Some of them were sober, sedate men sitting before me with their broad-brimmed hats shadowing their faces; others were sleeping in the yard outside; and others had left the neighbourhood years ago. Then I thought of the great Quaker preacher and author, Joseph John Gurney, whom I had heard in this room, and of J. Pease the philanthropic English banker. Then another incident of quite a different character came to my recollection. An old and well known Hicksite preacher was there one Sunday (always called First Day by the friends), and the spirit moved him to speak. The Hicksite and orthodox Quakers were something like the Jews and Samaritans of old--they dealt with one another, but had no religious fellowship. The old friend had said but a few words, when one of the leaders of the meeting rose and said very gravely: "Sit thee down, James;" but James did not seem disposed to be choked off in this peremptory way, and continued. Again the old friend stood up, and with stronger emphasis said: "James, I tell thee to sit thee down;" and this time James subsided. There was nothing more said on the occasion, and after a long silence, the meeting broke up. On another occasion, a young friend, who had aspired to become a teacher, stood up, and in that peculiar, drawling, sing-song tone which used to be a characteristic of nearly all their preachers, said: "The birds of the air have nests, the foxes have holes, but the Son of man hath not where to lay his head;" and then sat down, leaving those who heard him to enlarge and apply the text to suit themselves. There was nothing more said that day. And so my mind wandered on from one thing to another, until at length my attention was arrested by a friend who rose and took off his hat (members of the society always sit with their hats on), and gave us a short and touching discourse. I have heard some of the most telling and heart-searching addresses at Quaker meetings. On this occasion there was no attempt-- there could be none from a plain people like this--to tickle the ear with well-turned periods or rhetorical display. After the meeting was over, I walked out into the graveyard; my father and mother and two sisters lie there together, and several members of my father's family. There is a peculiarity about a Quaker burying-ground that will arrest the attention of any visitor. Other denominations are wont to mark the last resting place of loved ones by costly stones and inscriptions; but here the majority of the graves are marked with a plain board, and many of them have only the initials of the deceased, and the rank grass interlocks its spines above the humble mounds. I remember my father having some difficulty to get consent to place a plain marble slab at the head of his father and mother's grave. But were those who slumbered beneath forgotten? Far otherwise. The husband here contemplated the lowly dwelling place of the former minister to his delight. The lover recognised the place where she whose presence was all-inspiring reposed, and each knew where were interred those who had been lights to their world of love, and on which grave to shed the drop born of affection and sorrow. Although the pomp, the state, and the pageantry of love were her ransom, yet hither, in moments when surrounding objects were forgotten, had retired the afflicted, and poured forth the watery tribute that bedews the cheek of those that mourn "in spirit and in truth." Hither came those whose spirits had been bowed down beneath the burden of distress, and indulged in the melancholy occupation of silent grief, from which no man ever went forth without benefit. I thought of Falconer's lines:--

"Full oft shall memory from oblivion's veil
Relieve your scenes, and sigh with grief sincere?"

After lingering for some time near the resting place of the dear ones of my own family, I turned away and threaded my way thoughtfully back.

During another visit to the neighbourhood of my birth, after having tea with the Rev. H---, Rector of ----, I took a stroll through the graveyard that nearly surrounds the old church, and spent some time in reading the inscriptions on the headstones. There were numbers that were new and strange, but the most of them bore names that were familiar. Time, of course, had left his mark, and in some cases the lettering was almost gone. Many of those silent sleepers I remembered well, and had followed their remains to the grave, and had heard the old Rector pronounce the last sad rite: "Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust," long years ago. As I passed on from grave to grave of former friends and neighbours,

"Each in his narrow cell forever laid,"

many curious and pleasing collections were brought to mind. I came at last to the large vault of the first Rector, who was among the first in the Province. I recollected well the building of this receptacle for the dead, and how his family, one after another, were placed in it; and then the summons came to him, and he was laid there. A few years later, his wife, the last survivor of the family, was put there too, and the large slabs were shut down for the last time, closing the final chapter of this family history, and--as does not often happen in this world--they were taking their last sleep undivided. But Time, the great destroyer, had been at work during the years that had fled, and I was sorry to find that the slabs that covered the upper part of the vault, and which bore the inscriptions, were broken, and that the walls were falling in. There were no friends left to interest themselves in repairing the crumbling structure, and in a few years more the probabilities are that every vestige of the last resting-place of this united couple will be gone. It is not a pleasing thought, and yet it is true, that however much we may be loved, and however many friends may follow us with tears to the grave, in a few short years they will be gone, and no one left to care for us, or perhaps know that we ever lived. I have stood of an evening in the grand cemetery of Pere la Chaise, Paris and watched the people trooping in with their wreaths of _immortelles_ to be placed on the tombs of departed friends, and others with cans of water and flowers to plant around the graves. Here and there could be seen where some loved one had been sprinkling the delicate flowers, or remained to water them with their tears. This respect paid to the memory of departed ones is pleasant, and yet, alas, how very few, after two or three generations are remembered. The name that meets the eye on one stone after another might as well be a blank for all we know of them. Anyone who has visited the old churchyards or ruined abbeys in England must have felt this, as his gaze has rested on time-worn tablets from which every mark had long since been obliterated,

"By time subdued (what will not time subdue)!"

Turning away from the vault, and passing down the yard, I came to a grave the headstone of which had fallen, and was broken. I turned the two pieces over, and read: "To the memory of Eliza ----." And is this, thought I, the end of the only record of the dear friend of my boyhood; the merry, happy girl whom every one loved? No one left after a score of years to care for her grave? So it is. The years sweep on. "Friend after friend departs," still on, and all recollection of us is lost; on still, and the very stones that were raised as a memorial disappear, and the place that knew us once knows us no more forever. I turned away, sad and thoughtful; but after a little my mind wandered back again to the sunny hours of youth, and I lived them over. Eliza had been in our family for several years, and was one of the most cheerful, kind-hearted girls one could wish to see. She had a fine voice, and it seemed as natural for her to sing as a bird. This, with her happy disposition, made her the light and life of the house. She was like the little burn that went dancing so lightly over the pebbles in the meadow--bright, sparkling, joyous, delighting in pranks and fun as much as a kitten.

"True mirth resides not in the smiling skin--
The sweeted solace is to act no sin."
--HERRICK.

I do not think Eliza ever intentionally acted a sin. On one occasion, however, this excess of spirit led her perhaps beyond the bounds of maidenly propriety; but it was done without consideration, and when it was over caused her a good deal of pain. The mischievous little adventure referred to shall be mentioned presently.

We had some neighbours who believed in ghosts; not an uncommon thing in those days. Eliza, with myself, had frequently heard from these people descriptions of remarkable sights they had seen, and dreadful noises they had heard at one time and another. She conceived the idea of making an addition to their experiences in this way, and as an experiment made a trial on me. I had been away one afternoon, and returned about nine o'clock. It was quite dark. In the meantime she had quietly made her preparations, and was on the look out for me. When my horse's feet were heard cantering up the road, she placed herself that I could not fail to see her. On I came, and, dashing up to the gate, dismounted; and there before me on the top of the stone wall was something, the height of a human figure draped in white, moving slowly and noiselessly towards me. I was startled at first, but a second thought satisfied me what was up, and that my supernatural visitor was quite harmless. I passed through the gate, but my pet mare did not seem inclined to follow, until I spoke to her, and then she bounded through with a snort. After putting her in the field, and returning, I found the ghost had vanished. But I was quite sure I had not done with it yet; and as I drew near the house I was in momentary expectation that it would come out upon me somewhere. I kept a sharp look-out, but saw nothing, and had reached the porch door to go in, when, lo, there stood the spectre barring my way! I paused and glanced at its appearance as well as I could, and I must confess if I had been at all superstitious, or had come on such an object in a strange place, I think I should have been somewhat shaken. However, I knew my spectre, boldly took hold of it, and found I had something tangible in my grip. After a brief and silent struggle, I thrust open the door, and brought my victim into the room. My mother and sisters, who knew nothing of what had been going on, were greatly alarmed to see me dragging into the house a white object, and, womanlike, began to scream; but the mystery was soon revealed. She had made up some thick paste, with which she had covered her face, and had really got up quite a sepulchral expression, to which the darkness gave effect; and being enveloped in a white sheet, made, we thought, a capital ghost. This did not satisfy her, and was only a preliminary to her appearance on the first suitable occasion to our neighbours. It was not long before they encountered the ghost on their way home after dark, and were so badly frightened that in the end I think Eliza was worse frightened than they. Eliza never had any confidants in these little affairs, and they were over before any one in the house knew of it. This was the end, so far as she was concerned, of this kind of amusement.

Some time after this another little episode of a similar nature happened, but this time Eliza was one of the victims. We had a near neighbour, an old bachelor, who had a fine patch of melons close at hand. Eliza and a cousin who was on a visit had had their eyes on them, and one day declared they were going that night to get some of Tom's melons. Mother advised them not to do it, and told them there were melons enough in our own garden without their going to steal Tom's. No, they didn't want them, they were going to have a laugh on Tom;--and so when it was dark they set off to commit the trespass. They had been away but a few minutes when mother--who by the way was a remarkably timid woman, and I have often wondered how she got up enough courage to play the trick--put a white sheet under her arm and followed along the road to a turn, where was a pair of bars, through which the girls had passed to the field. Here she paused, and when she fancied the girls had reached their destination she drew the sheet around her, rapped on the bars with a stick, and called to them. Then, folding up the sheet, she ran away home. She was not sure whether they had seen her or not. The sheet was put away, and, taking up her knitting, she sat down quietly to await their return, which she anticipated almost immediately. A long time elapsed, and they did not appear. Then mother became alarmed, and as she happened to be alone she did not know what to do. Though she had gone out on purpose to frighten the girls, I do not think she could have been induced to go out again to see what was keeping them. After a while Mary came in, and then Eliza, both pale, and bearing evidence of having had a terrible fright. Mother asked them what in the world was the matter. "O, Aunt Polly!" they both exclaimed, "we have seen such an awful thing tonight." "What was it?" They could not tell; it was terrible! "Where did you see it?" "Over by the bars! Just as we had got a melon we heard an awful noise, and then we saw something white moving about, and then it was gone!" They were so badly frightened that they dropped down among the vines, and lay there for some minutes. They then got up, and, making a detour, walked home; but how, they never could tell. Mother was never suspected by them, and after a time she told them about it. There were no more ghosts seen in the neighbourhood after that.

Time passed on, and Eliza's love of mischief drove her into another kind of adventure. She was a girl of fine presence; fair, with bright black eyes and soft black hair, which curled naturally, and was usually worn combed back off the forehead. The general verdict was that she was pretty. I have no doubt if she had had the opportunity she would have made a brilliant actress, as she was naturally clever, possessing an excellent memory and being a wonderful mimic. She would enter into a bit of fun with the abandon of a child, and if occasion required the stoicism of a deacon, the whole house might be convulsed with laughter, but in Eliza's face, if she set her mind to it, you could not discern the change of a muscle. Her features were regular, and of that peculiar cast which, when she was equipped in man's attire, made her a most attractive-looking beau. About half a mile away lived a poor widow with a couple of daughters, and very nice girls they were, but one was said to be a bit of a coquette. Eliza conceived the idea of giving this young lady a practical lesson in the following manner. She dressed herself in father's clothes, and set about making the girl's acquaintance. She possessed the necessary _sang-froid_ to carry on a scheme of this kind with success. The affair was altogether a secret. Well, in due course a strange young man called about dark one evening at the widow's to make enquiries respecting a person in the neighbourhood he wished to find. He gave out that he was a stranger, and was stopping at ----, a few miles away; asked for a drink of water, and to be allowed to rest for a few moments; made himself agreeable, chatted with the girls, and when he was leaving was invited to call again if he passed that way. He did call again in a short time, and again and again, and struck up a regular courtship with one of the girls, and succeeded to all appearance in winning her affection. Now, the question presented itself, when matters began to take this shape, how she was to break it off, and the affair was such a novelty that she became quite infatuated with it, and I have no doubt would have continued her visits if an accident had not happened which brought them to an abrupt termination. On her return one night she unexpectedly met father at the door, and as there was no chance for retreat, she very courteously asked if he could direct her to Mr. ----. It happened to be raining, and father, of course quite innocently, asked the stranger in until the shower was over. She hesitated, but finally came in and took a seat. There was something about the person, and particularly the clothes, that attracted his attention, but this probably would have passed if he had not, observed that the boots were on the wrong feet; that is to say, the right boot was on the left foot, _et vice versa_. Knowing Eliza's propensities well, he suspected her, and she was caught. Enjoying a romp now and then himself he called mother, and after tormenting poor Eliza for a while, let her go. This cured her effectually. But the poor girl never knew what became of her lover. He came no more, and she was left to grieve for a time, and I suppose to forget, for she married a couple of years after. The secret was kept at Eliza's request, after making a clean breast of it to mother, for a long time. She married not long after this, and was beloved by everyone. She was a devoted wife, and had several children, none of whom are now living. Poor Eliza! I thought of Hamlet's soliloquy on Yorick as I stood by her unkept grave, with its headstone fallen and broken. "Those lips that I have kissed I know not how oft--where be your gambols? your songs? your flashes of merriment." All gone, years ago! And they live only in the sweet recollections of the past.

My father used to keep a large number of bees either in wood or straw hives, mostly of the former; and indeed most all our neighbours kept them too, and I remember a curious custom that prevailed of blowing horns and pounding tin pans when they were swarming, to keep them from going away. I never knew my father to resort to this expedient, but it was wonderful to see him work among them. He would go to the hives and change them from one to another, or go under a swarm, and without any protection to his face or hands, shake them into the hive, and carry it away and put it in its place. They never stung him unless by accident. If one of them got under his clothes and was crowded too much, he might be reminded that there was something wrong, but the sting only troubled him for a minute or two. With me it seemed if they got a sight of me they made a "bee line" for my face. After father's death they soon disappeared, as I would not have them about. We sometimes found bee trees in the woods, and on one occasion chopped down a large elm out of which we got a quantity of choice honey. I remember this well; for I ate so much that it made me sick, and cured me from wanting honey ever after.