LAURA SECORD, THE HEROINE OF 1812: _A DRAMA_ AND OTHER POEMS. 

BY SARAH ANNE CURZON

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 "And among them all move the majestic, white-robed bards, striking their golden harps, and telling the tales of the days of old, and handing down the names of the heroes for ever. "--JUSTIN H. MCCARTHY

 "The soul of the book is whatever beautiful and true and noble we can find in it. "--KINGSLEY'S "HYPATIA. "

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TO ALL TRUE CANADIANS, OF WHATEVER DERIVATION, THIS VOLUME IS RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED

BY

THE AUTHOR. 

PREFACE. 

The drama of "Laura Secord" was written to rescue from oblivion the nameof a brave woman, and set it in its proper place among the heroes ofCanadian history. During the first few years of her residence in Canadathe author was often astonished to hear it remarked, no less amongeducated than uneducated Canadians, that "Canada has no history;" andyet on every hand stories were current of the achievements of thepioneers, and the hardships endured and overcome by the United EmpireLoyalists. Remembering that, as soon as she had conquered the merestrudiments of reading and grammar at school, she was set to learn EnglishHistory, and so become acquainted with the past of her country, itseemed to the writer that there was something lacking in a course ofteaching that could leave Canadians to think that their country had nohistorical past. Determined to seek out for herself the facts of thecase, it was with feelings of the deepest interest that she read such ofthe contributions to the newspaper press as came in her way during thedebate with regard to the pensions asked of Government for the survivingveterans of 1812 in 1873-4. Among these was incidentally given the storyof Mrs. Secord's heroic deed in warning Fitzgibbon. Yet it could notpass without observation that, while the heroism of the men of that datewas dwelt upon with warm appreciation and much urgency as to theirdeserts, Mrs. Secord, as being a woman, shared in nothing more tangiblethan an approving record. The story, to a woman's mind, was full ofpathos, and, though barren of great incidents, was not without a duerichness of colouring if looked at by appreciative eyes. Nor were theresults of Laura Secord's brave deed insignificant. Had the Americanscarried Beaver Dams at that juncture, the whole peninsula was beforethem--all its supplies, all its means of communication with other partsof the Province. And Canada--Upper Canada, at least--would have been inthe hands of the invaders until, by a struggle too severe to becontemplated calmly, they had been driven forth. To save from the swordis surely as great a deed as to save with the sword; and this LauraSecord did, at an expense of nerve and muscle fully equal to any thatare recorded of the warrior. To set her on such a pedestal of equality;to inspire other hearts with loyal bravery such as hers; to write hername on the roll of Canadian heroes, inspired the poem that bears hername. But the tribute to her memory would not be complete were it toomit an appeal to Canadians, especially to the inhabitants of thisProvince, who, in their prosperity owe to her so much, to do their part, and write her name in enduring marble upon the spot where she liesburied. 

Nor does it seem asking more than a graceful act from the Government ofthe Dominion--a Dominion which, but for her, might never have been--todo its share in acknowledgment. One of her daughters still lives, and ifshe attain to her mother's age has yet nearly a decade before her. 

The drama of "Laura Secord" was written in 1876, and the ballad a yearlater, but, owing to the inertness of Canadian interest in Canadianliterature at that date, could not be published. It is hoped that abetter time has at length dawned. 

S. A. CURZON. 

TORONTO, 1887. 

CONTENTS

LAURA SECORD, THE HEROINE OF THE WAR OF 1812

A BALLAD OF 1812

THE QUEEN'S JUBILEE

THE HERO OF ST. HELEN'S ISLAND

OUR VETERANS OF 1812. (A PLEA)

LOYAL

ON QUEENSTON HEIGHTS

NEW ORLEANS, MONROE, MAYOR

THE SONG OF THE EMIGRANT

TO THE INDIAN SUMMER

IN JUNE

LIVINGSTONE, IN MEMORIAM

THE QUEEN AND THE CRIMEAN SOLDIERS

TO A CHILD

HOME

LOST WITH HIS BOAT

LIFE IN DEATH

INVOCATION TO RAIN

REMONSTRANCE WITH "REMONSTRANCE"

THE ABSENT ONES

AWAY

POOR JOE

FRAGMENTS

THE SWEET GIRL GRADUATE. (A COMEDY)

 * * * * *

_FABLES: ORIGINAL AND FROM THE FRENCH_. 

THE CHOICE

INSINCERITY

THE TWO TREES _Le May_. 

FABLE AND TRUTH _Florian_. 

THE CALIPH _Florian_. 

THE BLIND MAN AND THE PARALYTIC _Florian_. 

DEATH _Florian_. 

THE HOUSE OF CARDS _Florian_. 

THE BULLFINCH AND THE RAVEN _Florian_. 

THE WASP AND THE BEE _Florian_. 

 * * * * *

_TRANSLATIONS_. 

IN MEMORY OF THE HEROES OF 1760 _Le May_. 

THE SONG OF THE CANADIAN VOLTIGEURS _Le May_. 

THE LEGEND OF THE EARTH _Jean Rameau_. 

THE EMIGRANT MOUNTAINEER _Chateaubriand_. 

FROM "LIGHTS AND SHADES" _Hugo_. 

VILLANELLE TO ROSETTE _Desportes_. 

 * * * * *

NOTES

APPENDICES

MEMOIR OF MRS. SECORD

It is at all times an amiable and honourable sentiment that leads us toenquire into the antecedents of those who, by the greatness of theirvirtues have added value to the records of human history. Whether suchinquiry increases our estimation of such value or not, it must always beinstructive, and therefore inspiring. Under this impression I havesought on every hand to learn all that could be gathered of the historyof one of Canada's purest patriots. As Dr. Ryerson aptly says in his_U. E. Loyalists and their Times_, "the period of the U. E. Loyalists was one of doing, not recording, " therefore little beyondtradition has conserved anything of all that we would now like to knowof the heroism, the bravery, the endurance, the trials of that bold armyof men and women, who, having laid strong hands on the primeval forest, dug wide and deep the foundations of a nation whose greatness is yet tocome. In such a light the simple records that follow will be attractive. 

Laura Secord came of loyal blood. She was the daughter of Mr. ThomasIngersoll, the founder of the town of Ingersoll, and his wife Sarah, thesister of General John Whiting, of Great Barrington, Berkshire County, Mass. At the close of the War of 1776, Mr. Ingersoll came to Canada onthe invitation of Governor Simcoe, an old friend of the family, andfounded a settlement on the banks of the Thames in Oxford County. On thechange of government, Mr. Ingersoll and his struggling settlement ofeighty or ninety families found their prospects blighted and theirfuture imperilled; Mr. Ingersoll therefore saw it necessary to remove toLittle York, and shortly afterward settled in the township of Etobicoke. There he resided until some time after the War of 1812-14, when hereturned with his family to Oxford County. Here he died, but left behindhim worthy successors of his honourable name in his two sons, Charlesand James. 

Charles Ingersoll, with that active loyalty and heroic energy whichalike characterized his patriotic sister, Mrs. Secord, held prominentpositions in the gift of the Government and of the people, and was alsoa highly respected merchant and trader. 

James Ingersoll, though of a more retiring disposition than his brother, was a prominent figure in Western Canada for many years. He was amagistrate of high repute, and occupied a foremost position in themilitia, in which he held the rank of Lieutenant-Colonel at the time ofhis death. This event took place on the 9th August, 1886, at which datehe had been Registrar for the County of Oxford fifty-two years. 

That Mrs. Secord should be brave, ready, prompt in action, and ferventin patriotism is not surprising, seeing that all the events of herchildhood and youth were blended with those of the settlement of UpperCanada by the U. E. Loyalists, in whose ranks her family held sohonourable a position, and whose character and sentiments were at alltimes to be depended upon. 

The family of Secord, of which she became so distinguished a member, wasalso a notable one. Family documents exist which show that in the reignof Louis the Tenth of France a certain Marquis D'Secor was a Marshal ofHis Majesty's Household. A son of this Marquis embraced the Protestantreligion, as did younger branches of the family. During the persecutionof the Huguenots many of them suffered at the stake, and the familyestates, situated at La Rochelle, were confiscated. The survivorsescaped the massacre of St. Bartholomew by flight to England along withmany other noble families, among whom were the Comte de Puys, theBaudeaux, and a Holland family, the Van Cortlandts. 

Eventually five brothers emigrated to America where they settled in NewJersey, purchasing large tracts of land, founding New Rochelle andengaging in lumbering. On the breaking out of the Revolutionary War thefamily divided, the Loyalists changing their patronym to Secord byplacing the prefix "d" at the end of their name. These brothers after, as King's men, losing, in common with all the Loyalists, their propertyand estates, emigrated to New Brunswick, again engaging in lumbering andmilling operations, and; there certain of their descendants are to befound today. Some of these, and their sons, again removed to CanadaWest, where one of them, commonly called "Deaf John Secord, " who marriedMiss Wartman, of Kingston, was known all along the coast from St. Johnto Quebec for his hospitalities. Among those who settled in the Niagaradistrict were Stephen Secord, the miller of St. David's, Major DavidSecord, after whom the village was named, and James Secord, the husbandof the heroine of 1812. Stephen Secord died before the War of 1812, leaving a widow and a family of seven sons. Of Major David Secord, theonly record I have been able to procure is to be found in _A Historyof the Late War between Great Britain and the United States of America, by David Thompson, late of the Royal Scots_, as quoted for me by thekind courtesy of Miss Louisa Murray, of Stamford. It is as follows: "TheSecond Lincoln Militia, under Major David Secord, distinguishedthemselves in this action [the Battle of Chippewa] by feats of genuinebravery and heroism, stimulated by the example of their gallant leader, which are seldom surpassed even by the most experienced veterans. Theirloss was proportionate with that of the regular army. "

At the outbreak of the War of 1812, Mr. James Secord was living atQueenston, where he had a lumber mill and stores. He held the rank ofCaptain in the Lincoln Militia until close on the American invasion, butresigned in dudgeon at some action of his superior officer, and thus itis that in the relation of Mrs. Secord's heroic deed he is notdesignated by any rank. At the first call to arms, however, Mr. Secordat once offered his services, which were gladly accepted, and he waspresent at the Battle of Queenston Heights. Here he was severely woundedin the leg and shoulder, and lay on the field as one dead, until rescuedby his brave wife. He never fully recovered from his wounds, andreceived an acknowledgment of his voluntary services to the Governmentin the appointment to the post of Collector of Customs at the Port ofChippewa, which he held until his death in 1841. 

The married life of Mr. And Mrs. Secord was a most happy one. Theirthird daughter, Mrs. Harriet Smith, who still survives, a cheerful andvivacious lady of eighty-six, says that her father and mother were mostdevoted to each other, and lived in the closest mutual affection. 

At the date of the Battle of Queenston Heights, the family consisted offour daughters and one son: Mary--with whom the great Tecumseh is saidto have been in love--who was married to Dr. Trumbull, Staff-surgeon tothe 37th Regiment, and died in Jamaica; Charlotte, "the belle ofCanada, " who, died during a visit to Ireland; Harriet--Mrs. Smith--whostill survives and lives in great retirement with her eldest daughter atGuelph; and Appolonia, who died at the early age of eighteen. Charles, the only son, lived at Newark, and his surviving children are Mr. JamesB. Secord, of Niagara, and Alicia, Mrs. Isaac Cockburn, of Gravenhurst. 

Two daughters were born to Mr. And Mrs. Secord subsequent to the war. Hannah, who was married to Mr. Carthew, of Guelph. And died in 1884, leaving several sons, and Laura, who was married to Dr. Clarke, ofPalmerston, and died young, leaving one daughter, Laura. 

Mrs. Smith relates that she very well remembers her mother setting offfor St. David's, ostensibly to see her brother Charles, who lay sick atthe mill, and her father's ill-concealed agitation during that tryingday. What must the night have been to him? She also relates that duringthe short occupation of Queenston by the invaders, their soldiery werevery tyrannical, entering the houses and stores to look for money andhelp themselves to plunder, and even destroying the bedding, by rippingit up with their swords and bayonets, in the search. Mrs. Secord who hada store of Spanish doubloons, heirlooms, saved them by throwing theminto a cauldron of water which hung on a crane over a blazing fire. Inthis she unconsciously emulated the ready wit of one of her husband'sHuguenot progenitors, a lady, who during the persecution that followedthe Revocation of the Edict of Nantes, at a period of domiciliary searchfor incriminating proofs of unorthodoxy, is said to have thrown a copyof the Bible--a doubly precious treasure in those days--into a churn ofmilk from whence it was afterwards rescued little the worse, thanks toheavy binding and strong clasps. 

Envy having sent a shaft at even so warm and patriotic a breast as thatof Mrs. Secord, Col. Fitzgibbon sent her a certificate, dated only ashort time before his death, vouching to the facts of the heroic deed. It was evidently one of the cruel necessities of this hard life. Thecertificate runs as follows:

FITZGIBBON'S CERTIFICATE. 

"I do hereby certify that Mrs. Secord, the wife of James Secord, ofChippewa, Esq. , did, in the month of June, 1813, walk from her house inthe village of St. David's to Decamp's house in Thorold, by a circuitousroute of about twenty miles, partly through the woods, to acquaint methat the enemy intended to attempt by surprise to capture a detachmentof the 49th Regiment, then under my command; she having obtained suchknowledge from good authority, as the event proved. Mrs. Secord was aperson of slight and delicate frame; and made the effort in weatherexcessively warm, and I dreaded at the time that she must suffer inhealth in consequence of fatigue and anxiety, she having been exposed todanger from the enemy, through whose line of communication she had topass. The attempt was made on my detachment by the enemy, and hisdetachment, consisting of upwards of 500 men, with a field-piece andfifty dragoons, was captured in consequence. I write this certificate ina moment of much hurry and from memory, and it is, therefore, thusbrief. 

"(Signed) JAMES FITZGIBBON, "_Formerly Lieutenant in the 49th Regiment_. "

It is well to consider this great achievement of Mrs. Secord carefully, that we may be the better able to realize the greatness of the feat. Toassist in so doing, it will not be amiss to quote the following, fromCoffin's _Chronicles of the War_, bearing on the prudential reasonsof Proctor's retreat at Moravian Town. "But whether for advance or forretreat, the by-paths of the forest intermediate were such as themacadamized and locomotive imagination of the present day cannotencompass. A backwoodsman, laden with his axe, wading here, plouteringthere, stumbling over rotted trees, protruding stumps, a bit ofhalf-submerged corduroy road for one short space, then an adhesive claybank, then a mile or two or more of black muck swamp, may, possibly, --clay-clogged and footsore, and with much pain in the small ofhis back, --find himself at sundown at the foot of a hemlock or cedar, with a fire at his feet, having done manfully about ten miles for hisday's work. " This was written of a time of year when the fall rainspredict an approaching winter. Mrs. Secord's exploit was made on the23rd of June, a time when the early summer rains that set the fruit andconsecrate an abundant harvest with their blessing, nevertheless makeclay banks slippery, and streams swift, and of these latter the wholeNiagara district was full. Many have now been diverted and some driedup. I am happy to be able to give my readers the heroine's own simpleaccount of her journey, as furnished me by the courtesy of Mr. Benson J. Lossing, author of the "Pictorial Field Book of the War of 1812, " towhom the aged lady in 1862 recounted it in a letter (given in a note inMr. Lossing's book), the historian, on his visit to Chippewa in 1860, having failed to see her. She was then eighty-five years of age. 

"DEAR SIR, --I will tell you the story in a few words. 

"After going to St. David's and the recovery of Mr. Secord, we returnedagain to Queenston, where my courage again was much tried. It was thereI gained the secret plan laid to capture Captain Fitzgibbon and hisparty. I was determined, if possible, to save them. I had muchdifficulty in getting through the American guards. They were ten milesout in the country. [Footnote: The American sentries were out ten milesinto the country; that is, at any point commanding a possible line ofcommunication within a radius of ten miles from Fort George, Mrs. Secordmight come upon an American sentry. The deep woods, therefore, were heronly security. These she must thread to the best of her ability, withwhat knowledge she might possess of the woodman's craft, for even ablazed path was not safe. And by this means she must get out of Americancover and into British lines. To do this she must take a most circuitousroute, as she tells us, all round "by Twelve-mile Creek, " whose port isSt. Catharines, climbing the ridge that is now cut through by theWelland Canal, and thus doubling upon what would have been the straightroute, and coming on Fitzgibbon from the back, from the way of hissupports, for Major de Haren lay at Twelve-mile Creek, but not withinseveral miles of where the heroine crossed it. And it was dark, andwithin a few hours of the intended surprise when she reached it. To goto De Haren, even though it might have been nearer at that point--it maynot have been so, however--was a greater risk to Fitzgibbon, whosesafety she was labouring to secure, than to send him aid which mightonly reach him after the event. Forgetting her exhaustion she proceeds, fulfils her errand, and saves her country. _And shall that country lether memory die_?] When I came to a field belonging to a Mr. De Cou, in the neighbourhood of the Beaver Dams, I then had walked nineteenmiles. By that time daylight had left me. I yet had a swift stream ofwater (Twelve-mile Creek) to cross over on an old fallen tree, and toclimb a high hill, which fatigued me very much. 

"Before I arrived at the encampment of the Indians, as I approached theyall arose with one of their war yells, which, indeed, awed me. You mayimagine what my feelings were to behold so many savages. With forcedcourage I went to one of the chiefs, told him I had great news for hiscommander, and that he must take me to him or they would all be lost. Hedid not understand me, but said, 'Woman! What does woman want here?' Thescene by moonlight to some might have been grand, but to a weak womancertainly terrifying. With difficulty I got one of the chiefs to go withme to their commander. With the intelligence I gave him he formed hisplans and saved his country. I have ever found the brave and nobleColonel Fitzgibbon a friend to me. May he prosper in the world to comeas he has done in this. 

"LAURA SECORD. 

"CHIPPEWA, U. C. , Feb. 18, 1861. "

Mr. Lossing further adds in his letter to me:

"When, in the summer of 1860, the Prince of Wales visited Queenston theveteran soldiers of the Canada side of the Niagara frontier signed anaddress to his Royal Highness; Mrs. Secord claimed the privilege ofsigning it. 'Wherefore?' was asked. She told her story, and it wasallowed that she eminently deserved a place among the signers. Her storywas repeated to the Prince. He was greatly interested, and learning thatthe heroine had not much of this world's goods, sent her $500 soon afterhis return home, in attestation of his appreciation of her patriotism. "

Her sole surviving daughter at this date, says the gift was carried toher mother by ten gentlemen who had formed part of the Prince's suite. 

A correspondent at Drummondville, to whom I am indebted for severalValuable particulars, says: "Mrs. Laura Second is remembered here as afine, tall, strong woman. Strong, too, in mind, purpose, determination, and yet womanly and maternal withal. She is spoken of as _indeed abrave woman_, of strong patriotism and courage. 

"The difficulties and dangers then, were those of anew, uncleared, pathless country increased by lurking foes, and by wandering, untaughtIndians. 

"In connection with her chief act of heroism the following anecdote hasbeen told me:--Three American soldiers called at her log house atQueenston to ask for water. One of them said, 'You have a nice placehere, missis, when we come for good to this country we'll divide theland, and I'll take this here for my share. ' Mrs. Secord was so nettledby the thoughts expressed that although the men were civil andrespectful, she replied sharply, 'You scoundrel you, all you'll ever gethere will be six feet of earth!'

"When they were gone her heart reproached her for her heat, because themen had not molested her nor her property. " (Yet her indignation wasrighteous, since they were invaders in the worst sense of the term, having no lawful cause for their invasion. ) "Two days after two of themen returned. They said to Mrs. Secord, 'You were right about the sixfeet of earth, missis! The third man had been killed. "

In speaking of the heroine, Mr. James B. Secord, of Niagara, says in aletter to me, "My grandmother was of a modest disposition, and did notcare to have her exploit mentioned, as she did not think she had doneany thing extraordinary. She was the very last one to mention theaffair, and unless asked would never say any thing about it. "

This noble-minded and heroic woman died in 1868, aged ninety-threeyears. She lies in Drummondville Churchyard, by the side of the husbandshe loved so well. Nothing but a simple headstone, half defaced, marksthe place where the sacred ashes lie. But surely we who enjoy thehappiness she so largely secured for us, we who have known how to honourBrock and Brant, will also know how to, honour Tecumseh and LAURASECORD; the heroine as well as the heroes of our Province--of our commonDominion--and will no longer delay to do it, lest Time should snatch thehappy opportunity from us. 

S. A. C. 

TORONTO, 4th August, 1887. 

NOTE. --The headstone of Laura Secord is three feet high, and eighteeninches wide, and has the following:

 HERE RESTS LAURA, BELOVED WIFE OF JAMES SECORD, Died, Oct. 17, 1868. _Aged 93 years_. 

The headstone of her husband has the following:

 IN MEMORY OF JAMES SECORD, SENR. , COLLECTOR OF CUSTOMS, Who departed this life on the 22nd day of Feb. , 1841, _In the 68th year of his age_. 

 Universally and deservedly lamented as a sincere Friend, a kind and indulgent Parent, and an affectionate Husband. 

LAURA SECORD:

THE HEROINE OF THE WAR OF 1812. 

DRAMATIS PERSONAE. 

 * * * * *

_British_:

LAURA SECORD, _the Heroine, wife of_ James Secord. 

ELIZABETH SECORD, _widow of_ Stephen Secord, _the Miller at St. David's_. 

MARY, _a girl of thirteen, daughter of_ James and Laura Secord. 

CHARLOTTE, _her sister_. 

HARRIET, _her sister_. 

BABETTE, _the maid at the_ Mill. 

A WOMAN, _the keeper of a roadside tavern at_ Beaver Dams. 

JAMES SECORD, _a wounded militia officer, home on sick leave, husbandof_ Laura Secord. 

LIEUTENANT FITZGIBBON, _a British officer holding the post at_Beaver Dams. 

MAJOR DE HAREN, _a British officer lying at_ St. Catharines _withhis command_. 

COLONEL THOMAS CLARKE, _A Canadian militia officer_. 

SERGEANT GEORGE MOSIER, _an old Pensioner, and_ U. E. Loyalist _of 1776_. 

MISHE-MO-QUA (The Great Bear), _a Mohawk Chief_. 

JOHN PENN, _a farmer (Harvey's Quaker)_. 

GEORGE JARVIS, _a Cadet of the 49th Regiment_. 

_A_ Sergeant _of the 8th Regiment_. 

_A_ Sergeant _of the 49th Regiment_. 

JAMES CUMMINGS, _a Corporal of Militia_. 

ROARING BILL, _a Private in the 49th Regiment_. 

JACK, _a Private in the 49th Regiment_. 

_Other_ Soldiers _of the 49th, 8th, or King's Own, and 104thRegiments_. 

Militiamen, _Canadians_. 

Indians, _British Allies, chiefly Mohawks_. 

TOM, _a child of six, son of the_ Widow Secord. 

ARCHY, _a little Boy at_ St. David's Mill. 

CHARLES, _a boy of four, son of_ James _and_ Laura Secord. 

_Other_ Boys _of various ages from eight to sixteen_. 

_American_:

COLONEL BOERSTLER, _an American officer_. 

CAPTAIN MCDOWELL, _an American officer_. 

PETE _and_ FLOS, _slaves_. 

_A large body of American soldiers, infantry, dragoons and artillerymen_. 

LAURA SECORD: THE HEROINE OF THE WAR OF 1812

 * * * * *

ACT I. 

SCENE 1. --_Queenston. A farmhouse_. 

John Penn, a Quaker, _is seated on a chair tilted against thewall_. Mr. Secord, _his arm in a sling, reclines on a couch, against the end of which a crutch is is placed_. Mrs. Secord, _occupies a rocking-chair near the lounge_. Charlie, _a littlefellow of four, is seated on her lap holding a ball of yarn from whichshe is knitting_. Charlotte, _a girl of twelve, is seated on astool set a little in rear of the couch; she has a lesson-book in herhand_. Harriet, _a girl of ten, occupies a stool near her sister, and has a slate on her lap. All are listening intently to the_Quaker, _who is speaking_. 

 _Quaker_. The midnight sky, set thick with shining points, Hung watchingly, while from a band of gloomThat belted in the gloomier woods, stole forthForeshortened forms of grosser shade, all barredWith lines of denser blackness, dexter-borne. Rank after rank, they came, out of the dark, So silently no pebble crunched beneathTheir feet more sharp than did a woodchuck stir. And so came on the foe all stealthily, And found their guns a-limber, fires ablaze, And men in calm repose. With bay'nets fixedThe section in advance fell on the camp, And killed the first two sentries, whose sharp criesAlarmed a third, who fired, and firing, fled. This roused the guard, but "Forward!" was the word, And on we rushed, slaying full many a manWho woke not in this world. The 'larum given, A-sudden rose such hubbub and confusionAs is made by belching earthquake. Waked from sleep, Men stumbled over men, and angry criesResounded. Surprised, yet blenching not, Muskets were seized and shots at random firedE'en as they fled. Yet rallied they when ours, At word from Harvey, fell into line, And stood, right 'mid the fires, to flint their locks--An awful moment!--As amid raging storms the warring heavenFalls sudden silent, and concentrates forceTo launch some scathing bolt upon the earth, So hung the foe, hid in portentous gloom, While in the lurid light ours halted. Quick, Red volcanic fire burst from their linesAnd mowed us where we stood!Full many a trembling hand that set a flintFell lifeless ere it clicked: _yet silent all_--Save groans of wounded--till our rods struck home;Then, flashing fire for fire, forward we rushedAnd scattered them like chaff before the wind. The King's Own turned their left; the Forty-ninth, At point of bay'net, pushed the charge, and tookTheir guns, they fighting valiantly, but wild, Having no rallying point, their leaders bothLying the while all snug at Jemmy Gap's. And so the men gave in at last, and fled, And Stony Creek was ours. 

 _Mr. Secord_. Brave Harvey! Gallantly planned and carried. The stroke is good, the consequences better. Cooped as he is in George, the foe will lackHis forage, and perforce must--eat his stores;For Yeo holds the lake, and on the landHis range is scarce beyond his guns. And more, He is the less by these of men to moveOn salient points, and long as we hold firmAt Erie, Burlington, and Stony Creek, He's like the wretched bird, he "can't get out. "

 _Mrs. Secord_. You speak, friend Penn, as if you saw the fight, Not like a simple bearer of the news. 

 _Quaker_. Why, so I did. 

 _Mrs. Secord_. You did! Pray tell us how it was;For ever have I heard that Quakers shunnedThe sight of blood. 

 _Quaker_. None more than I. Yet innate forces sometimes tell o'er useAgainst our will. But this was how it happed:Thou seest, Mistress Secord, I'd a loadOf sound potatoes, that I thought to takeTo Vincent's camp, but on the way I metA British officer, who challenged me; saith he, "Friend, whither bound?" "Up to the Heights, " say I, "To sell my wares. " "Better, " saith he, "Go to the Yankee camp; they'll pay a priceJust double ours, for we are short of cash. ""I'll risk the pay, " say I, "for British troops;Nay, if we're poor, I can afford the load, And p'rhaps another, for my country's good. ""And say'st thou so, my Quaker! Yet, " saith he, "I hear you Quakers will not strike a blowTo guard your country's rights, nor yet your own. ""No, but we'll hold the stakes, " cried I. He laughed. "Can't you do more, my friend?" quoth he, "I needA closer knowledge of the Yankee camp:How strong it is, and how it lies. A brushIs imminent, and one must win, you knowShall they?"His manner was so earnest that, beforeI knew, I cried, "Not if I know it, man!"With a bright smile he answered me, "There spokeA Briton. " Then he directed meHow I might sell my load, what I should mark, And when report to him my observations. So, after dusk, I met him once again, And told him all I knew. It pleased him much. Warmly he shook my hand. "I am, " saith he, "Lieutenant-Colonel Harvey. Should it hapThat I can ever serve you, let me know. "

 _Mrs. Secord_. And then you stayed to see the end of it?

 _Quaker_. Mistress, I did. Somewhat against my creed, I freely own; for what should I, a Quaker, E'er have to do with soldiers, men of blood!I mean no slight to you, James. 

 _Mr. Secord_ (_laughing_). No, no! go on. 

 _Quaker_. Well, when I thought how tired poor Dobbin was, How late the hour, and that 'twould be a weekBefore I'd hear how Harvey sped that night, I thought I'd stay and see the matter out;The more, because I kind o' felt as ifWhatever happed I'd had a hand in it. 

 _Mrs. Secord_. And pray where did you hide? for hide you must, So near the Yankee lines. 

 _Quaker_. It wasn't hard to do; I knew the ground, Being a hired boy on that very farm, Now Jemmy Gap's. There was an elm, where onceI used to sit and watch for chipmunks, that I clomb, And from its shade could see the Yankee camp, Its straggling line, its fires, its careless watch;And from the first I knew the fight was ours, If Harvey struck that night. 

 _Mr. Secord_. Ha! ha! friend John, thine is a soldier's brainBeneath that Quaker hat. 

 _Quaker_ (_in some embarrassment, rising_). No, no, I am a man of peace, and hateThe very name of war. I must be gone. (_To Mrs. Secord_. ) My woman longs to see thee, Mistress. Good-bye to all. 

 _The Little Girls_ (_rising_). Good-bye, sir. 

 _Mrs. Secord_. Good-bye, John, 'Twould please me much to see my friend again, But war blots out the sweet amenitiesOf life. Give her my love. 

 _Quaker_. I will. 

 _Mr. Secord_ (_rising and taking his crutch_). I'll walk a piece with you, friend Penn, And see you past the lines. 

 [_His little daughter_, HARRIET, _hands him his hat_. 

 _Quaker_. That's right, 'twill do thee good:Thy wounds have left thee like an ailing girl, So poor and pale. 

 [_Exeunt_ Quaker _and_ MR. SECORD. 

 _Charlotte_. Oh, dear, I wish I were a man, to fightIn such brave times as these!

 _Enter_ MARY, _a girl of fourteen_. 

 _Mary_. Were wishing aughtSoon should another sword strike for the King, And those dear rights now rudely overlooked. 

 _Mrs. Secord_. My child?

 _Mary_. Oh naught, mamma, save the old tale: no nookThat's not invaded, even one's booksBorrowed without one's leave. I hate it all!

 _Mrs. Secord_. We must be patient, dear, it cannot last. 

 _Harriet_. Oh, if we girls were boys, or Charles a man!

 _Mrs. Secord_. Poor baby Charles! See, he's asleep; and now, Dear girls, seeing we cannot fight, we'll prayThat peace may come again, for strife and blood, Though wisely spent, are taxes hard to pay. But come, 'tis late! See Charlie's dropt asleep;Sing first your evening hymn, and then to bed. I'll lay the darling down. 

_Exit_ MRS. SECORD, _with the child in her arms_. 

 _Charlotte_. You start it, Mary. 

 _Children sing_--

 HYMN. 

 Softly as falls the evening shade, On our bowed heads Thy hands be laid; Surely as fades the parting light, Our sleep be safe and sweet to-night Calmly, securely, may we rest, As on a tender father's breast. 

 Let War's black pinions soar away, And dove-like Peace resume her sway, Our King, our country, be Thy care, Nor ever fail of childhood's prayer. Calmly, securely, may we rest As on a tender father's breast. 

 [_Exeunt_. 

 * * * * *

SCENE 2. --_The same place and the same hour_. 

_Enter_ MRS. SECORD. 

After a weary day the evening fallsWith gentle benison of peace and rest. The deep'ning dusk draws, like a curtain, round, And gives the soul a twilight of its own;A soft, sweet time, full of refreshing dews, And subtle essences of memoryAnd reflection. O gentle peace, when--

_Enter_ PETE, _putting his head in at the door_. 

 _Pete_. O, mistis! Heh, mistis!

 _Mrs. Secord_. What now, Pete?

 _Pete_. Oh, mistis, dat yar sergeant ossifer--Dat sassy un what call me "Woolly-bear. "An' kick my shin, he holler 'crass to me:--"You, Pete, jes' you go in, an' tell Ma'am SecordI'se comin' in ter supper wiv some frens. "He did jes' so--a sassy scamp. 

 _Mrs. Secord_. To-night? At this hour?

 _Pete_. Yes, mistis; jes', jes' now. I done tell FlosTer put her bes' leg fus', fer I mus' goAn' ten' dat poo', sick hoss. 

 _Mrs. Secord_. Nay, you'll do nothing of the kind! You'll stayAnd wait upon these men. I'll not have FlosLeft single-handed by your cowardice. 

 _Pete_. I aint a coward-ef I hed a club;Dat poo', sick hoss--

 _Mrs. Secord_. Nonsense! Go call me Flos, and see you play no tricks to-night. 

 _Pete_. No, mistis, no; no tricks. [_Aside_. Ef I'd a club!] _He calls from the door_: Flos! Flos! Ma'am Secord wants ye. 

 _Mrs. Secord (spreading a cloth upon the table)_. God help us if these men much longer liveUpon our failing stores. 

_Enter_ FLOS. 

What have you got to feed these fellows, Flos?

 _Flos_. De mistis knows it aint much, pas' noo bread, An' two--three pies. I've sot some bacon sisslin', An' put some taties on when Pete done tole me. 

 _Pete_. Give 'em de cider, mistis, an' some beer, And let 'em drink 'em drunk till mas'r comeAn' tell me kick 'em out. 

 _Flos_. You!--jes' hol' yer sassy tongue. 

 [_Footsteps are heard without_. 

_Pete_. Dat's um. Dey's comin'. Dat poo', sick hoss--

 [_He makes for the door_. 

 _Mrs. Secord_. You, Pete, come back and lay this cloth, And wait at table properly with Flos. 

_Enter a_ Sergeant, _a_ Corporal _and four_ Privates. 

 _Sergeant (striking Pete on the head with his cane)_. That's for your ugly phiz and impudence. 

 [_Exit Pete, howling_. 

(_To Mrs. Secord_. ) Your slaves are saucy, Mistress Secord. 

 _Mrs. Secord_. Well, sir!

 _Sergeant_. None of my business, eh? Well, 'tis sometimes, You see. You got my message: what's to eat?

 _Mrs. Secord_. My children's food, sir. This nor post-house is, Nor inn, to take your orders. 

 [FLOS _and_ PETE _enter, carrying dishes_. 

 _Sergeant_. O, bless you, we don't order; we command. Here, men, sit down. 

 [_He seats himself at the head of the table, and the others take their places, some of them greeting_ MRS. SECORD _with a salute of respect_. 

Boy, fill those jugs. You girl, Set that dish down by me, and haste with more. Bacon's poor stuff when lamb and mint's in season. Why don't you kill that lamb, Ma'am Secord?

 _Mrs. Secord_. 'Tis a child's pet. 

 _Sergeant_. O, pets be hanged!

 [_Exit_ MRS. SECORD. 

 _Corporal_. Poor thing! I'm sure none of us want the lamb. 

 _A Private_. We'll have it, though, and more, if Boerstler--

 _Corporal_. Hold your tongue, you--

 _Second Private_ (_drinking_). Here's good luck, my boys, to that surprise--

 _Corporal (aside)_. Fool!

 _Sergeant (drinking)_. Here's to to-morrow and a cloudy night. Fill all your glasses, boys. 

 * * * * *

SCENE 3. --_Mrs. Secord's bedroom. She is walking up and down in muchagitation_. 

_Enter_ MR. SECORD. 

 _Mrs. Secord_ (_springing to meet him_). Oh, James, where have you been?

 _Mr. Secord_. I did but ramble through the pasture, dear, And round the orchard. 'Twas so sweet and still. Save for the echo of the sentry's treadO'er the hard road, it might have been old times. But--but--you're agitated, dear; what's wrong?I see our unasked visitors were here. Was that--?

 _Mrs. Secord_. Not that; yet that. Oh, James, I scarce can bearThe stormy swell that surges o'er my heart, Awaked by what they have revealed this night. 

 _Mr. Secord_. Dear wife, what is't?

 _Mrs. Secord_. Oh, sit you down and rest, for you will needAll strength you may command to hear me tell. 

 [_Mr. Secord sits down, his wife by him_. 

That saucy fellow, Winter, and a guardCame and demanded supper; and, of course, They had to get it. Pete and Flos I leftTo wait on them, but soon they sent them off, Their jugs supplied, --and fell a-talking, loud, As in defiance, of some private planTo make the British wince. Word followed word, Till I, who could not help but hear their gibes, Suspected mischief, and, listening, learned the whole. To-morrow night a large detachment leavesFort George for Beaver Dam. Five hundred men, With some dragoons, artillery, and a trainOf baggage-waggons, under Boerstler, goTo fall upon Fitzgibbon by surprise, Capture the stores, and pay for Stony Creek. 

 _Mr. Secord_. My God! and here am I, a paroled cripple!Oh, Canada, my chosen country! Now--Is't now, in this thy dearest strait, I fail?I, who for thee would pour my blood with joy--Would give my life for thy prosperity--Most I stand by, and see thy foes prevailWithout one thrust?

 [_In his agitation he rises_. 

 _Mrs. Secord_. Oh, calm thee, dear; thy strength is all to me. Fitzgibbon shall be warned, or aid be sent. 

 _Mr. Secord_. But how, wife? how? Let this attempt succeed, As well it may, and vain last year's success;In vain fell Brock: in vain was Queenston fought:In vain we pour out blood and gold in streams:For Dearborn then may push his heavy forceAlong the lakes, with long odds in his favour. And I, unhappy wretch, in such a straitAm here, unfit for service. Thirty menAre all Fitzgibbon has to guard the storesAnd keep a road 'twixt Bisshopp and De Haren. Those stores, that road, would give the Yankee all. 

 _Mrs. Secord_. Why, be content now, dear. Had we not heard, This plot might have passed on to its dire end, Like the pale owl that noiseless cleaves the dark, And, on its dreaming prey, swoops with fell claw. 

 _Mr. Secord_. What better is it?

 _Mrs. Secord_. This; that myself will go to Beaver Dam, And warn Fitzgibbon: there is yet a day. 

 _Mr. Secord_. Thou! thou take a task at which a man might shrink?No, no, dear wife! Not so. 

 _Mrs. Secord_. Ay, prithee, let me go;'Tis not so far. And I can pass unharmedWhere you would be made prisoner, or worse. They'll not hurt me--my sex is my protection. 

 _Mr. Secord_. Oh, not in times like these. Let them suspectA shadow wrong, and neither sex, nor tears, Nor tenderness would save thy fate. 

 _Mrs. Secord_. Fear not for me. I'll be for once so wiseThe sentries shall e'en put me on my way. Once past the lines, the dove is not more swiftNor sure to find her distant home than ITo reach Fitzgibbon. Say I may go. 

 _Mr. Secord_ (_putting his arm 'round her tenderly_). How can I let thee go? Thy tender feetWould bleed ere half the way was done. Thy strengthWould fail 'twixt the rough road and summer heat, And in some, gloomy depth, faint and alone, Thou would'st lie down to die. Or, chased and hurtBy wolf or catamount, thy task undone, Thy precious life would then be thrown away. I cannot let thee go. 

 _Mrs. Secord_. Not thrown away! Nay, say not that, dear James. No life is thrown away that's spent in doing duty. But why raise up these phantoms of dismay?I did not so when, at our country's call, You leapt to answer. Said I one wordTo keep you back? and yet my risk was greaterThen than now--a woman left with childrenOn a frontier farm, where yelling savages, Urged on, or led, by renegades, might burn, And kill, and outrage with impunityUnder the name of war. Yet I blenched not, But helped you clean your musket, clasped your belt, And sent you forth, with many a cheery word. Did I not so?

 _Mr. Secord_. Thou didst indeed, dear wife, thou didst. But yet, --I cannot let thee go, my darling. Did I not promise in our marriage vow, And to thy mother, to guard thee as myself. 

 _Mrs. Secord_. And so you will if now you let me go. For you would go yourself, without a wordOf parley, were you able; leaving meThe while in His good hands; not doubting onceBut I was willing. Leave me there now, James, And let me go; it is our country calls. 

 _Mr. Secord_. Ah, dearest wife, thou dost not realizeAll my deep promise, "guard thee as myself?"I meant to guard thee doubly, trebly more. 

 _Mrs. Secord_. There you were wrong. The law says "as thyselfThou shalt regard thy neighbour. "

 _Mr. Secord_. My neighbour! Then is that all that thou artTo me, thy husband? Shame! thou lovest me not. My neighbour!

 _Mrs. Secord_. Why now, fond ingrate! What saith _the Book?_"THE GOOD, with all thy soul and mind and strength;Thy neighbour as thyself. " Thou must _not_ loveThyself, nor me, as thou _must_ love the Good. Therefore, I am thy neighbour; loved as thyself:And as thyself wouldst go to warn FitzgibbonIf thou wert able, so I, being able, Thou must let me go--thy other self. Pray let me go!

 _Mr. Secord_ (_after a pause_). Thou shalt, dear wife, thou shalt. I'll say no more. Thy courage meets the occasion. Hope shall beMy standard-bearer, and put to shameThe cohorts black anxiety calls up. But how shall I explain to prying folksThine absence?

 _Mrs. Secord_. Say I am gone to see my brother, 'Tis known he's sick; and if I venture now'Twill serve to make the plot seem still secure. I must start early. 

 _Mr. Secord_. Yet not too soon, lest ill surmiseAroused by guilty conscience doubt thy aim. 

 _Mrs. Secord_. That's true. Yet at this time of year do travellers startAlmost at dawn to avoid the midday heats. Tell not the children whither I am bound;Poor darlings! Soon enough anxietyWill fall upon them; 'tis the heritageOf all; high, low, rich, poor; he chiefly blestWho travels farthest ere he meets the foe. There's much to do to leave the household straight, I'll not retire to-night. 

 _Mr. Secord_. Oh, yes, dear wife, thou shalt not spend thy strengthOn household duties, for thou'lt need it allEre thy long task be done. O, but I fear--

 _Mrs. Secord_ (_quickly_). Fear nothing!Trust heaven and do your best, is wiser. Should I meet harm, 'twill be in doing duty:Fail I shall not!

 _Mr. Secord_. Retire, dear wife, and rest; I'll watch the hoursBeside thee. 

 _Mrs. Secord_. No need to watch me, James, I shall awake. 

[_Aside_. And yet perhaps 'tis best. If he wake now he'll sleep to-morrowPerforce of nature; and banish thusSome hours of sad anxiety. ]

 _Mr. Secord_. I'd better watch. 

 _Mrs. Secord_. Well then, to please you! But call me on the turnOf night, lest I should lose an hour or twoOf cooler travel. 

 * * * * *

SCENE 4--_Daybreak on the_ 23_rd June_, 1813. 

_The porch of_ Mr. Secord's _farmhouse. A garden path, with agate that opens on to the high road from Newark to Twelve-MileCreek_. 

_Enter_ JAMES SECORD _and his wife_. 

 _Mr. Secord_. Heaven speed thee, then, dear wife. I'll try to bearThe dreadful pangs of helplessness and dreadWith calm demeanour, if a bursting heart. 

 _Mrs. Secord_. Then will you taste a woman's common lotIn times of strait, while I essay man's roleOf fierce activity. We will compareWhen I return. Now, fare-thee-well, my husband. 

 (_Fearful of being observed, they part without an embrace_. Mrs. Secord _walks down the garden slowly, and gathers a few clove pinks; athe gate she stops as though the latch were troublesome, raises theflowers to her lips, and makes a slight salute to her husband, who yetstands within the porch watching her. She then rapidly pursues her way, but soon encounters an American sentry, whom she essays to pass with anod and a smile: the man prevents her by bringing his musket to thecharge, and challenging_. )

 _Mrs. Secord_. Why do you stop me?

 _Sentry_. Where is your pass?You know that none may take the road without one. 

 _Mrs. Secord_. But surely I may go to milk my cow, Yonder she is. 

 [_A cow is seen in the clearing_. 

She's wandered in the night. I'll drive her back again, poor thing. She likes new pasture best, as well she may. 

 _Sentry_. Keep you your kine at home, you've land enough. 

 _Mrs. Secord_. Why, that's our land, and those our barns and sheds. 

 _Sentry_. Well, pass!

 [_He suddenly observes the flowers_. 

But where's your milking pail?I guess the bunch of flowers is for the cow. 

 _Mrs. Secord_ (_gently_). You are too rough! The pinks weep dewy tearsUpon my hand to chide you. There, take them;

 [_She offers him the flowers_. 

And let their fragrance teach you courtesy, At least to women. You can watch me. 

 _Sentry_. Madam, suspicion blunts politeness. Pass. I'll take your flowers, and thank you, too;'Tis long since that I saw their fellows inThe old folks' garden. 

 (Mrs. Secord _crosses the road, takes a rail out of the fence, whichshe replaces after having passed into the clearing, and proceeds to thebarn, whence she brings an old pail, luckily left there, and approachesthe cow_. )

 _Mrs. Secord_ (_aside_). Could I but get her out of sight, I'd driveThe creature round the other way, and goMy own. Pray Heaven the sentry watch me notToo closely; his manner roused my fears. 

 [_She waves her hand at the cow, which moves on_. 

Co' boss! co' boss. Sh! Haste thee, poor cow;Fly from me! though never didst thou yet:Nor should'st do now, but for the stake I play. 

 [_Both disappear in the bush_. 

 _Sentry_ (_apostrophising the disappearing "enemy"_). Well, mistress, were you gentle as your face, The creature wouldn't run you such a race. It serves you right! The cows my Anna milks, Come at her call, like chickens. O, sweet voice, When shall I hear you next? Even as I paceWith measured step this hot and dusty road, The soft June breezes take your tones, and call, "Come, Henry, come. " Would that I could!Would I had never joined!But my hot blood o'ermastered my cool sense, Nor let me see that always is not boughtHonour by arms, but often dire disgrace. For so it is, as now I clearly see, We let the animal within remainUnbroke, till neither gyve nor gear will serveTo steady him, only a knock-down blow. Had I, and others, too, within the ranks, Haltered our coltish blood, we should have foundThat hate to England, not our country's nameAnd weal, impelled mad Madison upon this war;And shut the mouths of thousand higher menThan he. It is a lesson may I learnSo as to ne'er forget, that in the heat of wordsSparks oft are struck that should be straightway quenchedIn cool reflection; not enlarged and fedWith passionate tinder, till a flame is blownThat reaches past our bonds, and leaves behindBlack, sullen stumps where once the green trees grew. If honour's what we want, there's room enoughFor that, and wild adventure, too, in the West, At half the cost of war, in opening upA road shall reach the great Pacific. (_A step_). Ha! Who goes there? [_Exit_. 

 * * * * *

SCENE 5. --_The Road at the foot of Queenston Heights_. 

 _Mrs. Secord_ (_looking in the direction of her home_). Gone! Gone! Quite out of sight! Farewell, my home, Casket that holds my jewels! If no moreMy happy eyes rest on thy lowly roof, If never more my ears drink in the soundsOf sweeter music, in your loving tones, My darlings, than e'er was drawn from harpThe best attuned, by wandering Aeolus, Then let my memory, like some fond relic laidIn musk and lavender, softly exhaleA thousand tender thoughts to soothe and bless;And let my love hide in your heart of hearts, And with ethereal touch control your lives, Till in that better home we meet again. 

 (_She covers her face with her hands, and weeps unrestrainedly for afew seconds, then recovers herself, and raises her hands in prayer_. )

Guard them and me, O Heaven. 

 [_She resumes her journey, but still gazes In the direction of the Heights_. 

And Brock! McDonnell! Dennis!All ye hero band, who fell on yonder Heights!If I should fall, give me a place among ye, And a name will be my children's pride, For all--my all--I risk, as ye, to saveMy country. 

 [_Exit_. 

ACT II. 

SCENE I. --_The great kitchen at St. David's Mill. Breakfast-time_. 

_At the board are seated the_ Widow Stephen Secord, Sergeant GeorgeMosier, _and little_ Tom. Babette _is waiting at table_. 

 _Widow_. 'Tis pitiful to see one's land go wasteFor want of labour, and the summer days, So rich in blessing, spend their fruitful forceOn barren furrows. And then to thinkThat over both the Provinces it is the same, --No men to till the land, because the warNeeds every one. God knows how we shall feedNext year: small crop, small grist, --a double lossTo me. The times are anxious. (_To Sergeant Mosier_. ) Have you news?

 _Sergeant_. Not much, ma'am, all is pretty quiet stillSince Harvey struck them dumb at Stony Creek. Along the Lake bold Yeo holds them fast, And, Eric-way, Bisshopp and Evans back him. Thus stand we now; but Proctor's all too slow. O had we Brock again, bold, wise, and prompt, That foreign rag that floats o'er Newark's spiresWould soon go down, and England's ensign up. 

 _Widow_. Ah, was he not a man! and yet so sweet, So courteous, and so gentle. 

 _Babette_. _Ah, oui, madame_. So kind! not one rough word he ever had, The _General_, but bow so low, "_Merci, Babette_, "For glass of milk, _et petit chose comme ca_. Ah, long ago it must be he was French:Some _grand seigneur, sans doute_, in Guernsey then. Ah the brave man, madame, _ce hero la!_

 _Widow_. Yes, brave indeed, Babette, but English, English. Oh, bravery, good girl, is born of noble hearts, And calls the world its country, and its sexHumanity. 

 _Babette_. Madame?

 _Widow_. You do not understand me, not; but youWere very brave and noble-hearted whenYou faced the wolf that scented the young lambs. 

 _Babette_. _Brave! moi!_ Madame is kind to say it so. But bravery of women--what is thatTo bravery of man?

 _Tom_. An' that's just what I said to Hatty, mother, When she declared that Aunty Laura wasAs brave as soldiers, 'cause she went an' fetchedPoor Uncle James from off the battlefield. After the fight was over. That wasn't much!

 _Widow_. You're but an ignorant little boy, my son, But might be wiser were you not so pert. 

 _Sergeant_. I heard not that before, ma'am. 

 _Widow_. Did you not?'Tis very true. Upon that dreadful day, After Brock fell, and in the second fight, When with the Lincoln men and Forty-firstSheaffe led the attack, poor Captain Secord dropped, Shot, leg and shoulder, and bleeding there he lay, With numbers more, when evening fell; for meansWere small to deal with wounded men, and all, Soldiers and citizens, were spent and wornWith cruel trials. So when she learned he layAmong the wounded, his young wife took upA lantern in her hand, and searched the field--Whence sobs and groans and cries rose up to heavenAnd paled the tearful stars--until she foundThe man she loved, not sure that life remained. Then binding him as best she might, she bore, With some kind aid, the fainting body home, --If home it could be called where rabid hateHad spent its lawless rage in deeds of spite;Where walls and roof were torn with many balls, And shelter scarce was found. That very night, Distrustful lest the foe, repulsed and wild, Should launch again his heavier forces o'erThe flood, she moved her terror-stricken girls--Four tender creatures--and her infant boy, Her wounded husband and her two young slaves, 'Neath cover of thick darkness to the farm, A mile beyond: a feat even for a man. And then she set her woman's wit and loveTo the long task of nursing back to healthHer husband, much exhaust through loss of blood, and all the angry heat of gunshot wounds. But James will never be himself againDespite her care. 

 _Sergeant_. 'Twas well and bravely done. Yet oft I think the women of these daysDegenerate to those I knew in youth. 

 _Widow_. You're hasty, Sergeant, already hath this warShown many a young and delicate womanA very hero for--her hero's sake;Nay, more, for others'. She, our neighbour thereAt Queenston, who when our troops stood still, Weary and breathless, took her young babe, Her husband under arms among the rest, And cooked and carried for them on the field:Was she not one in whom the heroic bloodRan thick and strong as e'er in times gone by?O Canada, thy soil is broadcast strownWith noble deeds: a plague on him, I say, Who follows with worse seed!

 (_She rises and prepares for making pies_. Babette _clears off thetable, and_ Sergeant George _smokes his pipe, sitting close to theopen chimney, now filled with fresh branches of spruce and cedar_. )

 _Sergeant_. Well, mistress, p'rhaps you're right; old folks aye thinkOld times the best; but now your words recallThe name of one, the bravest of her sex, So far as e'er I saw, save, p'rhaps, the Baroness. Tender of frame, most gentle, softly raised, And young, the Lady Harriet Acland shared, With other dames whose husbands held commands, The rough campaign of 'Seventy-six. But her lot fell so heavy, and withalShe showed such spirit, cheerfulness, and love, Her name became a watchword in the ranks. 

 _Widow_. And what about her, Sergeant?

 _Sergeant_. Well, mistress, as you ask I'll tell the tale:She was the wife of Major John Dyke-Acland, An officer of Grenadiers, then joinedTo Highland Frazer's arm of Burgoyne's troops. At Chamblee he was wounded. Leaving the Fort, His wife crossed lake and land, by means so roughAs tried the strength of men, to nurse him. Recovered; next he fought Ticonderoga, And there was badly wounded. Lake ChamplainShe traversed to his aid in just a batteau. No sooner was he better, than againHe joined his men, always the first to move, And so alert their situation was, That all slept in their clothes. In such a timeThe Major's tent took fire, and he, that night, But for a sergeant's care, who dragged him out, Had lost his life. Twice saved he was;For thinking that his wife still lay within, Burning to death, he broke away, And plunged into the fiery mass. But she, Scarce half awake, had crept from out the tent, And gained her feet in time to see him rushIn search of her--a shuddering sight to oneLoving and loved so well. But luckily, Both then were saved. She also shared the marchThat followed up the foe, action impendingAt every step; and when the fight began, Though sheltered somewhat, heard all the din, The roar of guns, and bursting shells, and sawThe hellish fire belch forth, knowing the whileHer husband foremost in the dreadful fray. Nay, more; her hut was all the shelter givenTo dress the wounded first; so her kind eyesWere forced to witness sights of ghastly sort, Such as turn surgeons faint; nor she alone, Three other ladies shared her anxious care:But she was spared the grief they knew too soon, Her husband being safe. But when BurgoyneAt Saratoga lost the bloody day, The Major came not back--a prisoner he, And desperate wounded. After anxietySo stringent and prolonged, it seemed too muchTo hope the lady could support such stingAnd depth of woe, yet drooped she not; but roseAnd prayed of Burgoyne, should his plans allow, To let her pass into the hostile camp, There to beseech for leave to tend her husband. Full pitifully Burgoyne granted herThe boon she asked, though loath to let her go;For she had passed hours in the drenching rain, Sleepless and hungry; nor had he e'en a cupOf grateful wine to offer. He knewHer danger, too, as she did, --that she might fallIn cruel hands; or, in the dead of nightApproaching to the lines, be fired on. Yet yielding to her prayer, he let her go, Giving her all he could, letters to Gates, And for her use an open boat. Thus she set forth, with Chaplain BrudenellFor escort, her maid, and the poor Major's man--Thus was she rowed adown the darkling stream. Night fell before they reached the enemy's posts, And all in vain they raised the flag of truce, The sentry would not even let them land, But kept them there, all in the dark and cold, Threatening to fire upon them if they stirredBefore the break of day. Poor lady! SadWere her forebodings through those darksome hours, And wearily her soft maternal frameBore such great strain. But as the darkGrows thickest ere the light appears, so sheFound better treatment when the morning broke. With manly courtesy, proud Gates allowedHer wifely claim, and gave her all she asked. 

 _Widow_. Could he do less! Yes, Sergeant, I'll allowOld times show tender women bold and braveFor those they love, and 'twill be ever so. And yet I hold that woman braver stillWho sacrifices all she loves to serveThe public weal. 

 _Sergeant_. And was there ever one?

 _Widow_. Oh, yes--

_Enter_ MRS. SECORD. 

Why, Laura! Now you're just too lateTo have your breakfast with us. But sit down. (_She calls_. ) Babette! Babette!

_Enter_ BABETTE. 

Haste, girl, and make fresh tea, Boil a new egg, and fry a bit of ham, And bring a batch-cake from the oven; they're doneBy this. 

 [_Exit_ BABETTE. 

(_To Mrs. Secord_. ) Take off your things, my dear;You've come to stay a day or two with Charles, Of course. He'll be awake just now. He's weak, But better. How got you leave to come?

 [SERGEANT GEORGE _is leaving the kitchen_. 

Stay, Sergeant, you should know James Secord's wife, Poor Charles's sister. 

(_To Mrs. Secord_. ) Laura, this is a friendYou've heard us speak of, Sergeant George Mosier, My father's crony, and poor Stephen's, too. 

 _Mrs. Secord (curtesying)_. I'm glad to meet you, sir. 

 _Sergeant (bowing low)_. Your servant, madam, I hope your gallant husband is recovered. 

 _Mrs. Secord_. I thank you, sir, his wound, but not his strength, And still his arm is crippled. 

 _Sergeant_. A badge of honour, madam, like to mine, [_He points to his empty sleeve_. 

_Enter_ BABETTE _with tray_. 

 [_Exit_ SERGEANT GEORGE. 

 _Widow_. That's right, girl, set it here. (_To Mrs. Secord_. )Come eat a bit. That ham is very nice, 'tis Gloucester fed, And cured-malt-coombs, you know, so very sweet. (_To Babette_. ) Mind thou the oven, lass, I've pies to bake, And then a brisket. 

 [_Exit_ BABETTE. 

(_To Mrs. Secord_. ) I thought you fastWithin the lines: how got you leave to come?

 _Mrs. Secord_. I got no leave; three several sentries I, With words of guile, have passed, and still I fearMy ultimate success. 'Tis not to seePoor Charles I came, but to go further onTo Beaver Dam, and warn Fitzgibbon thereOf a foul plot to take him by surpriseThis very night. We found it out last eve, But in his state poor James was helpless, So I go instead. 

 _Widow_. You go to Beaver Dam! Nineteen long milesOn hot and dusty roads, and all alone!You can't, some other must. 

 _Mrs. Secord_. I must, no other can. The time is short, And through the virgin woods my way doth lie, For should those sentries meet, or all reportI passed their bounds, suspicion would be waked, And then what hue and cry!

 _Widow_. The woods! and are you crazed? You cannot go!The woods are full of creatures wild and fierce, And wolves prowl round about. No path is blazed, No underbrush is cleared, no clue existsOf any kind to guide your feet. A manCould scarce get through, how then shall you?

 _Mrs. Secord_. I have a Guide in Heaven. This task is comeTo me without my seeking. If no wordReaches Fitzgibbon ere that murderous hordeBe on him, how shall he save himself?And if defeat he meets, then farewell allOur homes and hopes, our liberties and lives. 

 _Widow_. Oh, dear! oh, dear! and must you risk your life, Your precious life? Think of it, Laura, yet:Soldiers expect to fight; and keep strict watchAgainst surprise. Think of your little girls, Should they be left without a mother's care;Your duty is to them, and surely notIn tasks like this. You go to risk your life. As if you had a right, and thereby leaveThose who to you owe theirs, unpitied, Desolate. You've suffered now enoughWith all you've lost, and James a cripple, too, What will the children do should they lose youJust when their youthful charms require your care?They'll blame you, Laura, when they're old enoughTo judge what's right. 

 _Mrs. Secord_. I do not fear it. Children can see the right at one quick glance, For, unobscured by self or prejudice, They mark the aim, and not the sacrificeEntailed. 

 _Widow_. Did James consent to have you go?

 _Mrs. Secord_. Not till he found there was no other way;He fretted much to think he could not go. 

 _Widow_. I'm sure he did. A man may undergoA forced fatigue, and take no lasting hurt, But not a woman. And you so frail--It is your life you risk. I sent my lads, Expecting them to run the chance of war, And these you go to warn do but the same. 

 _Mrs. Secord_. You see it wrong; chances of war to thoseWould murder be to these, and on my soul, Because I knew their risk, and warned them not. You'll think I'm right when tramp of armed men, And rumble of the guns disturb you in your sleep. Then, in the calmer judgment night-time brings, You'd be the first to blame the selfish careThat left a little band of thirty menA prey to near six hundred. 

 _Widow_. Just the old story! Six hundred--it's disgraceful!Why, Were they tailors--nine to make a man--'Tis more than two to one. Oh, you must go. 

 _Mrs. Secord_. I knew you'd say so when you came to think:It was your love to me that masked your judgment. I'll go and see poor Charles, but shall not sayMy real errand, 'twould excite him so. 

 [_Exit_ MRS. SECORD. 

 _Widow_. Poor Laura! Would to God I knew some wayTo lighten her of such a task as this. 

 [_Enter_ SERGEANT GEORGE. 

 _Sergeant_. Is it too early for the invalid?The lads are here, and full of ardour. 

 _Widow_. Oh, no, his sister's with him. 

 [_Exit_ SERGEANT. [_A bugle is heard sounding the assembly_. 

_Enter_ MRS. SECORD _in alarm_. 

 _Mrs. Secord_. What's that! What's that!

 _Widow_. I should have warned you, dear, But don't be scared, its Sergeant George's boys. He's gathered quite a company of ladsFrom round about, with every match-lock, gun, Or fowling-piece the lads could find, and drillsThem regularly every second morn. 

He calls 'em "Young St. David's Yeoman Guard, "Their horses, "shankses naigie. " Look you here!

 (_Both ladies look through the open window from which is visible thedriving shed: here are assembled some twenty lads of all ages andheights, between six and sixteen. They carry all sorts of old firelocksand are "falling in. " They are properly sized, and form a "squad withintervals. " In the rear stands a mash-tub with a sheepskin stretchedover it for a drum, and near it is the drummer-boy, a child of six; abugle, a cornet and a bassoon are laid in a corner, and two or threeboys stand near_. )

 _Sergeant George_. Now, Archy, give the cadence in slow time. (_To the squad_. ) Slow--march. (_They march some thirty paces_. )Squad--halt. (_They halt, many of them out of line_. ) Keep yourdressing. Steps like those would leave some of you half behindon a long march. Right about face--two--three. That's better. Slow--march. (_They march_. ) Squad--halt. (_They all bringup into line_. ) That's better. No hangers back with foe infront. Left about face--two--three. Keep up your heads. By the right--dress. Stand easy. Fall in, the band. We'll trythe music. 

 (_The band falls in, three little fellows have fifes, two elder onesflutes, one a flageolet; the owners of the cornet, bugle and bassoontake up their instruments, and a short, stout fellow has atrombone_. )

 _Sergeant George (to the band)_. Now show your loyalty, "TheKing! God bless him. "

 [_They play, the squad saluting_. 

 _Sergeant George_ (_to band_. ) That's very well, but mindyour time. (_To the squad_. ) Now you shall march to music. (_Tothe band_. ) Boys, play--"The Duke of York's March. " (_Tothe squad_. ) Squad--attention. Quick march. (_They march_. )Squad--halt. 

 [_At a signal, the band ceases playing_. 

Yes, that's the way to meet your country's foes. If you were Yankee lads you'd have to march to this (_hetakes a flageolet)_. Quick--march. 

 (_Plays Yankee Doodle with equal cleverness and spite, travestyingboth phrase and expression in a most ludicrous manner until the boysfind it impossible to march for laughter; the Sergeant is evidentlydelighted with the result_. )

Ho! Ho! That's how you march to "Yankee Doodle. "'Tis a fine tune! A grand, inspiring tune, Like "Polly put the Kettle on, " or"Dumble-dum-deary. " Can soldiers march to that?Can they have spirit, honour, or do great deedsWith such a tune as that to fill their ears?

 _Mrs. Secord_. The Sergeant's bitter on the foe, I think. 

 _Widow_. He is, but can you wonder? Hounded outWhen living peaceably upon his farm. Shot at, and threatened till he takes a side, And then obliged to fly to save his life, Losing all else, his land, his happy home, His loving wife, who sank beneath the change, Because he chose the rather to endureA short injustice, than belie his bloodBy joining England's foes. He went with Moody. 

 _Mrs. Secord_. Poor fellow! Those were heavy times, like these. 

 _Sergeant George_. Now boys, the grand new tune, "BritanniaRules the Waves, " play _con spirito_, that means heart! mind!soul! as if you meant it. 

 (_He beats time, and adds a note of the drum at proper points, singingthe chorus with much vigour and emphasis. Mrs. Secord betrays muchemotion, and when the tune is begun for the third verse, she hastilycloses the window_. )

Shut, shut it out, I cannot bear it, Ellen, It shakes my heart's foundations! Let me go. 

 _Widow_. Nay, but you're soon upset. If you must go, Your bonnet's on my bed. I'll get a biteOf something for you on the road. 

 [_She busies herself in filling a little basket with refreshment, and offers_ MRS. SECORD _cake and wine_. 

Here, eat a bit, and drink a sup of wine, It's only currant; the General's got a kegI sent, when stores were asked; James Coffin's good;He always sends poor Ned, or Jack, or Dick, --When commissariat's low; a mother's heart, A widowed mother, too, he knows, sore longsTo see her lads, e'en if she willing sendsThem all to serve the King. I don't forget himMorning and night, and many a time between. No wine? Too soon? Well, take this drop along. There's many a mile where no fresh water is, And you'll be faint--

 [_She bursts into tears_. 

Good lan', I cannot bear to see you go. 

 _Mrs. Secord_. Nay, sister, nay, be calm!Send me away light-hearted, [_Kisses her_. 

I trust in God, As you for your dear lads. Shew me the wayTo gain the woods unseen by friend or foe, The while these embryo soldiers are engaged. 

 _Widow_. I'll go with you a mile or two. 

 _Mrs. Secord_. No, no. It might arouse suspicion. 

 [_She opens the door, and the_ WIDOW SECORD _joins her_. 

 _Widow_. Times indeedWhen every little act has some to watch!

 [_Points to a tree_. 

You see yon oak just by the little birch--

 _Mrs. Secord_. I do. 

 _Widow_. There is a little path leads downTo a small creek, cross that, and keep the sunBehind you half a mile, and then you strikeThe bush, uncleared and wild. Good God, to think--

 _Mrs. Secord_. Think not, but pray, and if a chance occursSend aid to poor Fitzgibbon. Little helpJust in the nick of time oft turns the scaleOf fortune. God bless you, dear! Good bye. 

 [_They embrace with tears. Exit_ MRS. SECORD. 

 * * * * *

SCENE 2. --_A beautiful glade_. 

_Enter_ MRS. SECORD. --_After scanning the spot searchingly, sheseats herself on a fallen trunk_. 

 _Mrs. Secord_. This spot is surely safe; here I will rest, For unaccustomed service tires my limbs, And I have travelled many a weary roodMore than a crow-line measures; ups and downsAbsorb so many steps that nothing addTo distance. Faint am I, too, and thirsty. Hist! hist! ye playful breezes that do makeMelodious symphonies and rippling runsAmong the pines and aspens, hear I notA little tinkling rill, that somewhere hidesIts sweet beneficence 'mid ferns and moss?

 [_She rises and looks about_. 

Ay, here it is: a tiny brilliancyThat glances at the light, as careful, still, To keep the pure translucency that firstIt caught from Heaven. Give me, oh give, sweet rill, A few cool drops to slake my parching throat. Fair emblem truly thou of those meek heartsThat thread the humblest haunts of suffering earthWith Christ-like charities, and keep their soulsPure and untaint, by Heavenly communings. 

 [_She reseats herself, and contemplates the scene_. 

O this is beautiful! Here I could lie--Were earth a myth and all her trials nought--And dream soft nothings all a summer's day. In this fair glade were surely celebrateThe nuptials of the year: and for her gift, Fair Flora, lightly loitering on the wingOf Zephyrus, tossed all her corbel out, Filling the air with bloom. From yonder copse, With kindling eye and hasty step, emergedThe gladsome Spring, with leafy honours crowned, His following a troop of skipping lambs:And o'er yon hill, blushing for joy, approachedHis happy bride, on billowy odours borne, And every painted wing in tendance bent. Procession beautiful! Yet she how fair!--The lovely Summer, in her robes of blue, Bedecked with every flower that Flora gave, --Sweet eglantine and meek anemone, Bright, nodding columbine and wood-star white, Blue violets, like her eyes, and pendant gemsOf dielytra, topaz-tipped and gold, Fragrant arbutus, and hepatica, With thousands more. Her wreath, a coronetOf opening rose-buds twined with lady-fern;And over all, her bridal-veil of white, --Some soft diaph'nous cloudlet, that mistookHer robes of blue for heaven. -- And I could dreamThat, from his lofty throne beholding, Great Sol, on wings of glowing eve, came downIn gracious haste, to bless the nuptials. (_She pauses_. ) And shall this land, That breathes of poesy from every sod, Indignant throb beneath the heavy footOf jeering renegade? at best a sonHis mother blushes for--shall he, bold rebelEntwine its glories in defiant wreathAbove his boastful brow, and flaunt it inHer face, rejoicing in her woe? No! No!This priceless gem shall ever deck her crown, And grace its setting with a ray more pureFor that, nor flood, nor fire, can flaw its heart. Yes, Canada, thy sons, at least, maintainThe ancient honour of their British blood, In that their loyalty contracts no stainFrom proffered gifts or gold. But I must on. I may not loiter, whileSo much depends on me. 

(_She rises to proceed, and at the first step a rattlesnake rears upat her, hissing and springing its rattles. She recoils in fear, butremembering the cowardly nature of the creatures, throws sticks at it, and it glides swiftly away_. )

 Vile reptile!Base as vile, and cowardly as base;A straight descendant thou of him, methinks, Man's ancient foe, or else his paraphrase. Is there no Eden that thou enviest not?No purity thou would'st not smirch with gall?No rest thou would'st not break with agony?Aye, Eve, our mother-tongue avenges thee, For there is nothing mean, or base, or vile, That is not comprehended in the nameOf SNAKE!

 [_Exit_ MRS. SECORD. 

 * * * * *

SCENE 3--_A thick wood through which runs a forest path, leading to ahigh beech ridge_. 

_Enter_ MRS. SECORD, _walking as quickly as the underbrush will allow_. 

 _Mrs. Secord_. How quiet are the woods!The choir of birds that daily ushers inThe rosy dawn with bursts of melody, And swells the joyful train that waits uponThe footsteps of the sun, is silent now, Dismissed to greenwood bowers. Save happy cheepOf callow nestling, that closer snugs beneathThe soft and sheltering wing of doting love, --Likecroon of sleeping babe on mother's breast--Nosound is heard, but, peaceful, all enjoyTheir sweet siesta on the waving bough, Fearless of ruthless wind, or gliding snake. So peaceful lies Fitzgibbon at his post, Nor dreams of harm. Meanwhile the foeGlides from his hole, and threads the darkling route, In hope to coil and crush him. Ah, little recks he that a woman holdsThe power to draw his fangs!And yet some harm must come, some blood must flow, In spite of all my poor endeavour. O War, how much I hate thy wizard arts, That, with the clash and din of brass and steel, O'erpowers the voice of pleading reason;And with thy lurid light, in monstrous raysEnfolds the symmetry of human love, Making a brother seem a phantom or a ghoul!Before thy deadly scowl kind peace retires, And seeks the upper skies. O, cruel are the hearts that cry "War!" "War!"As if War were an angel, not a fiend;His gilded chariot, a triumphal car, And not a Juggernauth whose wheels drop gore;His offerings, flowers and fruit, and chaplets gay, And not shrieks, tears, and groans of babes and women. And yet hath War, like Juggernauth, a hold, A fascination, for humanity, That makes his vot'ries martyrs for his sake. Even I, poor weakling, march in keeping-timeTo that grand music that I heard to-day, Though children played it, and I darkly feelIts burden is resistance physical. 'Tis strange that simple tones should move one so!What is it, what, this sound, this air, this breathThe wind can blow away, Nor most intricate fetters can enchain?What component of being doth it touchThat it can raise the soul to ecstasy, Or plunge it in the lowest depth of horror?Freeze the stopt blood, or send it flowing onIn pleasant waves?Can draw soft tears, or concentrate them hardTo form a base whereon the martyr standsTo take his leap to Heaven?What is this sound that, in Niagara's roarBrings us to Sinai;Or in the infant's prayer to Him, "Our Father?"That by a small inflection wakes the world, And sends its squadroned armies onTo victory or death;Or bids it, peaceful, rest, and grow, and build?That reassures the frighted babe; or startsThe calm philosopher, without a word?That, in the song of little bird speaks glee;Or in a groan strikes mortal agony?That, in the wind, brings us to shipwreck, death. And dark despair;Or paints us blessed islands far from care or pain?Then what is sound?The chord it vibrates with its magic touchIs not a sense to man peculiar, An independent string formed by that breathThat, breathed into the image corporate, Made man a living soul. No, for all animate nature ownsIts sovereign power. Brutes, birds, fish, reptiles, allThat breathe, are awed or won by means of sound. Therefore, it must be of the corporate, corporealAnd, if so, _why then the body lives again_, Despite what sceptics say; for sound it isWill summon us before that final barTo give account of deeds done in the flesh. The spirit cannot thus be summoned, Since entity it hath not sound can strike. Let sceptics rave! I see no difficultyThat He, who from primordial atoms formedA human frame, can from the dust awake itOnce again, marshal the scattered moleculesAnd make immortal, as was Adam. This body lives! Or else no deep delightOf quiring angels harping golden strings;No voice of Him who calls His children home;No glorious joining in the immortal songCould touch our being But how refined our state!How changed! Never to tire or grow distraught, Or wish for rest, or sleep, or quietude, But find in absence of these earthly needsA truer Heaven. O might I rest even now!These feet grow painful, and the shadows tellOf night and dark approaching, my goalAn anxious distance off. 

 [_She gazes round_. 

 I'll rest awhile, For yonder height will tax my waning strength, And many a brier all beautiful with bloomHides many a thorn that will dispute my pathBeneath those ancient beeches. 

(_She seats herself, and having removed her bonnet, partakes of therefreshment brought from the mill. As she eats, a grieved look comesupon her face, and she wipes away a tear_. )

The sun leans towards the west: O darlings mine, E'en now, perchance, ye sit in order roundThe evening board, your father at the head, And Polly in my place making his tea, While he pretends to eat, and cheats himself. And thou, O husband, dearest, might I layMy, weary head as oft upon thy breast!--But no (_she rises_), I dare not think--there is aboveA Love will guard me, and, O blessed thought, Thee, too, and they our darlings. 

 [_She proceeds towards the beech ridge, but is stayed at the foot by a rapid-running stream_. 

Nor bridge, nor stone, nor log, how shall I cross?Yon o'erturned hemlock, whose wide-spreading rootStands like a wattled pier from which the bridgeSprings all abrupt and strait, and hangs withalSo high that hardihood itself looks blank--I scarce may tempt, worn as I am, and spent. And on the other bank, the great green headPresents a wilderness of tangled boughsBy which would be a task, indeed, to reachThe ground. Yet must I try. Poor hands, poor feet, This is rough work for you, and one small slipWould drop me in the stream, perchance to drown. Not drown! oh, no, my goal was set by Heaven. Come, rally all ye forces of the will, And aid me now! Yon height that looms aboveIs yet to gain before the sun gets low. 

 (_She climbs the hemlock root and reaches the trunk, across which shecrawls on her hands and knees, and at last finds herself some yards upthe beech ridge. After arranging her torn and dishevelled clothing sheproceeds up the ridge, at the top of which she encounters a Britishsentry, who challenges_. )

 _Sentry_. Who goes there?

 _Mrs. Secord_. A friend. 

 _Sentry_. What friend?

 _Mrs. Secord_. To Canada and Britain. 

 _Sentry_. Your name and errand. 

 _Mrs. Secord_. My name is Secord--Captain Secord's wife, Who fought at Queenston;--and my errand isTo Beaver Dam to see Fitzgibbon, And warn him of a sortie from Fort GeorgeTo move to-night. Five hundred men, with guns, And baggage-waggons for the spoil, are sent. For, with such force, the enemy is sureOur stores are theirs; and Stoney Creek avenged. 

 _Sentry_. Madam, how know you this?

 _Mrs. Secord_. I overheardSome Yankee soldiers, passing in and outWith all a victor's license of our hearths, Talk of it yesternight, and in such wiseNo room for doubt remained. My husband wishedTo bear the news himself, but is disabled yetBy those two wounds he got at Queenston Heights, And so the heavy task remained with me, Much to his grief. 

 _Sentry_. A heavy task indeed. How got you past their lines?

 _Mrs. Secord_. By many wiles;Those various arts that times like these entail. 

 _Sentry_. And then how got you here?

 _Mrs. Secord_. I left my homeAt daybreak, and have walked through the deep woodsThe whole way since I left St. David's Mill. 

 _Sentry_. 'Tis past belief, did not your looks accord. And still you have a weary way to go, And through more woods. Could I but go with you, How gladly would I! Such deed as yoursDeserves more thanks than I can give. Pass, friend, All's well. 

 [MRS. SECORD _passes the Sentry, who turns and walks with her_. 

 _Mrs. Secord_. There's naught to fear, I hope, but natural foes, Lynxes or rattlesnakes, upon my way. 

 _Sentry_. There are some Mohawks ambushed in the wood, But where I cannot quite point out; they chooseTheir ground themselves, but they are friends, though rough, --Some of Kerr's band, Brant's son-in-law. You'll needTo tell the chief your errand should you cross him. 

 _Mrs. Secord_. Thanks: for I rather fear our red allies. Is there a piquet?

 _Sentry_. No, not near me; our men are all too few--A link goes to and fro 'twixt me and quarters, And is but just now left (_he turns sharp about)_. My limit this--Yonder your road (_he points to the woods)_. God be wi' you. Good-bye. 

 _Mrs. Secord_. Good-bye, my friend. 

 [_Exit_ MRS. SECORD. 

 _Sentry_. A bold, courageous deed!A very woman, too, tender and timid. That country's safe whose women serve her causeWith love like this. And blessed, too, it is, In having such for wives and mothers. 

 * * * * *

SCENE 4. --_The forest, with the sun nearly below the horizon, its raysilluminate the tops of the trees, while all below is dark and gloomy. Bats are on the wing, the night-hawk careers above the trees, fire-fliesflit about, and the death-bird calls_. 

_Enter_ MRS. SECORD, _showing signs of great fatigue_. 

 _Mrs. Secord_. Gloomy, indeed, and weird, and oh, so lone!In such a spot and hour the mind takes onMoody imaginings, the body shrinks as'twere, And all the being sinks into a seaOf deariness and doubt and death. 

 [_The call of the death-bird is heard_. 

Thou little owl, that with despairing noteDost haunt these shades, art thou a spirit lost, Whose punishment it is to fright poor soulsWith fear of death?--if death is to be feared, And not a blank hereafter. The poor braveWho answers thee and hears no call respond, Trembles and pales, and wastes away and diesWithin the year, thee making his fell arbiter. Poor Indian! Much I fear the very dreadEngendered by the small neglectful bird, Brings on the fate thou look'st for. So fearless, yet so fearful, do we all, Savage and civil, ever prove ourselves;So strong, so weak, hurt by a transient sound, Yet bravely stalking up to meet the deathWe see. 

 [_A prolonged howl is heard in the distance_. 

The wolves! the dreadful wolves! they've scented me. O whither shall I fly? no shelter near;No help. Alone! O God, alone!

 [_She looks wildly round for a place to fly to. Another howl is heard_. 

O Father! not this death, if I must die, My task undone, 'tis too, too horrible!

 [_Another howl as of many wolves, but at a distance; she bends to listen, her hand upon her heart_. 

Be still, wild heart, nor fill my list'ning earsWith thy deep throbs. 

 [_The howl of the wolves is again heard, but faintly_. 

Thank God, not me they seek!Some other scent allures the ghoulish horde. On, on, poor trembler! life for life it is, If I may warn Fitzgibbon. 

 [_She steps inadvertently into a little pool, hastily stoops and drinks gladly_. 

Oh blessed water! To my parched tongueMore precious than were each bright drop a gemFrom far Golconda's mine; how at thy touchThe parting life comes back, and hope returnsTo cheer my drooping heart!

(_She trips and falls, and instantly the Indian war-whoop resoundsclose at hand, and numbers of braves seem to spring from the ground, oneof whom approaches her as she rises with his tomahawk raised_. )

 _Indian_. Woman! what woman want?

 _Mrs. Secord (leaping forward and seizing his arm)_. O chief, no spy am I, but friend to youAnd all who love King George and wear his badge. All through this day I've walked the lonely woodsTo do you service. I have news, great news, To tell the officer at Beaver Dam. This very night the Long Knives leave Fort GeorgeTo take him by surprise, in numbers moreThan crows on ripening corn. O help me on!I'm Laura Secord, Captain Secord's wife, Of Queenstown; and Tecumseh, your great chief, And Tekoriogea are our friends. 

 _Chief_. White woman true and brave, I send with youMishe-mo-qua, he know the way and sign, And bring you safe to mighty chief Fitzgibbon. 

 _Mrs. Secord_. O thanks, kind chief, and never shall your bravesWant aught that I can give them. 

 _Chief (to another)_. Young chief, Mish-e-mo-qua, with woman go, And give her into care of big white chief. She carry news. Dam Long-Knife come in darkTo eat him up. 

 _Mishe-mo-qua_. Ugh! rascal! dam!

 [_Exeunt_ MISHE-MO-QUA _and_ MRS. SECORD. 

ACT III

SCENE 1. --_Decau's house, a stone edifice of some pretensions. Theparlour, with folding doors which now stand a little apart. A sentry isvisible, on the other side of them. The parlour windows are barricadedwithin, but are set open, and a branch of a climbing rose with flowersupon it, swings in. The sun is setting, and gilds the arms that arepiled in one corner of the room. A sword in its scabbard lies across thetable, near which, in an arm-chair, reclines_ Lieutenant Fitzgibbon, _a tall man of fine presence; in his right hand, which restsnegligently on the back of the chair, he holds a newspaper of fourpages, "The Times, " from which he has been reading. Several elderlyweather-beaten non-commissioned officers and privates, belonging to the49th, 104th, and 8th regiments, together with a few militiamen and twocadets share the society of their superior officer, and all are verymuch at their ease both in appointments and manner, belts and stocks areunloosed, and some of the men are smoking_. 

 _Lieut. Fitzgibbon_. 'Tis true, it seems, and yet most horrible;More than five hundred thousand fighting menCrossed with him o'er the front, and not a tenthRemains. Rather than let him find a placeFor winter quarters, two hundred thousandHappy families had to forsake their homesIn dead of winter, and of the ancient seatOf Russian splendour, Rotopschin made a pyre, A blazing pyre of all its precious things:Moscow is burned. 

 _First Sergeant_. So Boney could but toast his freezing toesAnd march back home again: Fine glory that!

 _Fitzgibbon_. Sad waste of precious lives for one man's will. But this mishap will seal his fate. The CzarWill see his interest is a strong alliance, And all the Powers will prove too great a match, Even for Buonaparte. 

 _Second Sergeant_. Where is he now, Lieutenant?

 _Fitzgibbon_. In Paris, plotting again, I see; or wasNine weeks ago. 

 _First Private_. Yon news coom quick. Now when I were a bairn, that's forty year sin', We heard i' York 'at Merriky refusedTo pay the taxes, just three munth's arter;An' that wur bonnie toime, fur then t'coaachTuk but foive daaies ti mak' t' hull waai' doon, Two hunner moile, fra Lunnon. 

 _Fitzgibbon (still scanning the newspaper)_. Well, Jimmy, here's a man, one Bell, Of Greenock, can send a boat by steamAgainst the wind and tide, and talks with hopeOf making speed equal to both. He's tried it on the Clyde, so we may lookFor news from England in a month, ere long. 

 _First Private_. Na, na, sir; noo doant 'e pooak fun at me!Iver he doos ma' I go hang. Why neistThey scatterbrain 'ull mayhap send a shepJest whear tha' loike wi'oot a win' at all. Or promise till 't. 'Twere pity Nelson, noo, He'd noan o' sech at CopenhaagenMebbe tha' cu'd ha' gott tha' grunded shepsAfloat, an gett moor men to fe'ht them Daans. 

 _Fitzgibbon_. The fewer men the greater glory, Jim. Why, man, he got his title by that fight. 

 _Second Sergeant_. And well deserved it! A finer manNever trod deck, sailor or officer;His voice gave courage, as his eye flashed fire. We would have died for him, and he for us;And when the fight was done he got our rights, Or tried at it. More than old Parker did. 

 _First Sergeant_. Parker was rich, and so forgot the poor, But Nelson forgot none. 

 _Second Private_. He was cliver, too. Dash't! how I laughed, All i' my sleeve o' course. The fight was hot, And getting hotter, for, gad, them Danes can fight!And quite a quarter o' the ships was stuck, The Admiral's among 'em. So Nelson heldThe squadron at command. Up comes the word, "The signal Thirty-nine is out, sir. " Nelson turns, His stump a-goin' as his arm was usedAfore he lost it, meets the officer, as says, "Sir, Thirty-nine is out, shall I repeat it?""No, sir; acknowledge it. " Then on he goes. Presently he calls out, "What's flying now?""The same, sir. " So he takes his glassAnd puts it to his eye, his blind eye, mind you, An' says he, "No signal can I see. No, Ne'er a one. " Winking to Ferguson, says he, "I've but one eye, and may be blind sometimes. What! strike off now and lose the day? Not so:My signal keep for 'Closer battle, ' flying. That's how I'll answer. Confound the signal!Nail mine to the mast. " He won. 

 _First Militiaman_. Just touch and go for hanging, that. 

 _Fitzgibbon_. Success ne'er saw a scaffold, Jeremy. 

 _A Cadet_. Fine-looking fellow Nelson-was, I guess?

 _First Sergeant_. To look at? No, a little, thin, pale manWith a long queue, one arm, and but one eye, But that a blazer!

 _Second Militiaman_. These little uns has lots o' spunk:Boney's a little un, I've heerd. 

 _First Private_. Just so: and Wellington ain't big. 

 _Fitzgibbon (rising and drawing himself to his full height)_. Come, boys, you're getting personal. See me!If none but little men may win renown, I hope I'm two in one, for your sakes. And you forget the lion-hearted Brock. 

 _All (interrupting him)_. No! no! no!

 _Fitzgibbon_. A man of height exceeding any here, And yet whose alt of metred inchesNobly enlarged to full, fair, Saxon mould, And vested in the blazonments of rule, Shewed not so kingly to the obeisant sightAs was his soul. Who than ye better knewHis bravery; his lofty heroism;His purity, and great unselfish heart?Nature in him betrayed no niggard touchOf corporate or ethereal. Yet I yieldThat men of lesser mould in outward formHave been as great in deeds of rich renown. But then, I take it, greatness lies not inThe flesh, but in the spirit. He is greatWho from the quick occasion of the timeStrikes out a name. And he is also greatWho, in a life-long struggle, throws the foe, And binds on hoary locks the laurel crown. Each is a high exemplar. One with concentrate vigour strikes a blowThat rings around the world; the other drawsThe world round him--his mighty throesAnd well-contested standpoints win its praiseAnd force its verdict, though bleak indifference--A laggard umpire--long neglect his post, And often leaves the wrestler's best unnoted, Coming but just in time to mark his thewsAnd training, and so decides: while the loud shockOf unexpected prowess starts him aghast, And from his careless hand snatches the proud award. But mark me, men, he who is ever greatHas greatness made his aim--The sudden blow or long-protracted strifeYields not its secret to the untrained hand. True, one may cast his statue at a heat, But yet the mould was there;And he who chips the marble, bit by bit, Into a noble form, sees all the whileHis image in the block. There are who make a phantom of their aim--See it now here, now there, in this, in that, But never in the line of simple duty;Such will accomplish nothing but their shame:For greatness never leaves that thin, straight mark;And, just as the pursuit diverges from it, Greatness evanishes, and notorietyMisleads the suitor. I'd have you think of this. 

 _All_. Aye, aye, sir. 

 _Fitzgibbon_. Order the lights, for darkness falls apace, And I must write. 

 [_Exit_ First Private. 

 _Fitzgibbon (cutting the newspaper and handing the halves tothe sergeants)_. There, read to the rest, and let me have themback when done with. 

_Enter a_ Soldier _with lights_. 

 [_A voice is heard in the next room, beginning to sing_. 

Who's that?

 _First Private_. It's Roaring Bill, sir; shall I stop him?

 _Fitzgibbon_. No; let him sing. It cheers our loneliness, and does us good. 

 _First Sergeant_. Another of his own, I guess; homespunAnd rough, like country cloth. 

 _Fitzgibbon_. Hush! what is that he says?

 [_A_ Cadet _gently pushes one of the folding doors a little wider open_. 

 _Roaring Bill_. 'Tis but a doleful ditty, boys, With ne'er a chorus; yet I'll be boundYou'll hardly quarrel with it. 

 _A Comrade_. Let's have it, Bill; we ain't red Injuns, As likes palaver. 

 _Roaring Bill_--

SONG. 

 October blasts had strown the wreaths that erstwhile hung so gay, Above the brows of Queenston Heights where we impatient lay; Niagara fretted at our feet, as chafing at his post, And impotence to turn the fleets that bore the aggressive host. 

 And gray the dawn and cold the morn of Rensselaer's attack, But warm and true the hearts, though few, that leapt to beat him back. "On, Forth-ninth! On, volunteers! Give tongue, ye batteries twain!" Bold Dennis spake: the guns boomed forth, and down he rushed amain. 

 They sink! They fly! They drop down stream. --Ah, too delusive sight! A long-abandoned path they find, and gain the wooded height. The batteries now must guard the shore--above, our struggle lies; But down they pour, like surging flood, that skill and strength defies. 

 Down, down, they press us, inch by inch, beyond the village bound, And there, o'erwhelmed, but not o'ercome, we keep our sullen ground. Short time we stand. A ringing cheer proclaims our hero nigh; Our darling leader, noble Brock--hark to his gallant cry!

 "Follow me, boys!" the hero cries. We double to the wall-- Waving his gleaming sword on high, he climbs, and follow all; Impetuous up the mountain side he strides in warlike glee, All heedless of the leaden hail that whistles from each tree:

 For on and up proud Victory lures--we touch her laurel crown-- When by malign, deliberate aim the hero's stricken down. He falls! We fire, but ah, too late--the murderous work is done. No more that voice shall cheer us on, with "Vict'ry!" in its tone. 

 He falls: nor word nor look may cheer young Jarvis' anxious quest; Among his stricken men he sinks, his hand but seeks his breast. O, Death, could none but him suffice thy cold, insatiate eye? Nor knewed'st thou how many there for him would gladly die!

 Nor lonely speeds the parting soul, nor lonely stands the bier-- Two forms the bastion-tomb enfolds, two claim the soldier's tear. "Avenge the General!" was the cry. "AVENGE!" McDonell cries, And, leading madly up the Height, McDonell falls and dies. 

 [_Several of the men pass their hands over their eyes;_ MR. JARVIS _goes to the open window, as if to observe something without_. 

 _An 8th man_. A mournful ditty to a mournful tune, Yet not unworthy of the heroic theme, Nor of a soldier's heart. 

 _Mr. Jarvis (in a low voice)_. Indeed, you're right. I thank the singer for his memories, Though sad to me, who caught Brock's latest breath. 

 _Fitzgibbon_. I did not think there had been such a strokeOf genius in the lad. (_Another voice_. ) But who's this, now?

 _Second Cadet_. It's young Jack Kelley, sir; he has a voice, And emulates old Bill. 

 _Jack Kelley_ (_with the airs of an amateur_. ) Ugh! ugh! I'm hoarse. Now mind the coal-box, byes, and sing it up. "The Jolly Midshipman's" the tune. 

SONG. 

I. 

 It was a bold Canadian boy That loved a winsome girl; And he was bold as ancient knight, She, fair as day's own pearl. And to the greenwood they must go, To build a home and name, So he clasped hands with Industry, For fortune, wealth and fame. 

CHORUS

(In which all join, the leader beating time upon his knees with hisfists. )

 For fortune, wealth and fame, For fortune, wealth and fame; So he clasped hands with Industry, For fortune, wealth and fame. 

II. 

 And when the jocund Spring came in, He crowned the wedded pair. And sent them forth with hearts elate Their wildwood home to share. For he had built a snug log-house, Beneath a maple tree; And his axe had cleared a wide domain, While store of goods spun she. 

CHORUS. 

 While store of goods spun she, While store of goods spun she, And his axe had cleared a wide domain, While store of goods spun she. 

III. 

 The husband whistles at his plough, The wife sings at her wheel, The children wind the shrilly horn That tells the ready meal. And should you roam the wide world o'er, No happier home you'll see, Than this abode of loving toil Beneath the maple tree. 

CHORUS. 

 Beneath the maple tree, Beneath the maple tree, Than this abode of loving toil Beneath the maple tree. 

 _A 49th man_. Hurrah, Jack! that's a good tune, Let's have the chorus again. 

 _All_-- Beneath the maple tree, Beneath the maple tree, Than this abode of lov--

 [_The_ Sentry _challenges, and a_ Corporal _enters and salutes_ FITZGIBBON. 

 _Fitzgibbon_. Well, Corporal. 

 _Corporal_. Sir, here is Mishe-mo-qua and a woman. They say they've news, and wish to speak with you. 

 _Fitzgibbon_. Then, Corporal, show them in. 

 [_Exit_ Corporal. 

_Enter_ MRS. SECORD _and the_ Indian Chief, _who salutes_ LIEUT. FITZGIBBON. 

 _Several Militiamen_ (_in surprise, aside to each other_. ) 'Tis Mrs. Secord, Captain Secord's wife;What can her errand be? So tired, too, And in rags. 

 _Mrs. Secord_ (_courtesying_). You are the Captain, sir?

 _Fitzgibbon_. At your service. 

 _Mrs. Secord_. I bring you news of great importance, sir. 

 _Fitzgibbon_. I am indebted, madam, for what I seeHas been no common task. Be seated, pray. 

 [_A Cadet places a chair_. 

Chief, will you also rest?

 [_He indicates a couch_. 

 _Mishe-mo-qua_. No. Woman, sheCome far, to tell white chief great words. 

 _Fitzgibbon_. I thank her much. 

 _Mrs. Secord_. I came to say that General Dearborn tires. Of his inaction, and the narrow spaceAround his works, he therefore purposesTo fall upon your outpost here, to-night, With an o'erwhelming force, and take your stores:

 _Fitzgibbon_. Madam!

 _Mrs. Secord_. Five hundred men, with some dragoons and guns, Start e'en to-night, soon as the moon goes down;Lieutenant-Colonel Boerstler in command. A train of waggons, too, is sent for spoil. 

 _Fitzgibbon_. And may I ask on what authorityTo trust such startling news? I know you not. 

 _Mrs. Secord_. My name is Secord, I'm Captain Secord's wife, Who fought at Queenston Heights, and there receivedThe wounds that leave him now a helpless cripple. Some here may know him. 

 _Fitzgibbon_. I remember now. 

 _Mrs. Secord_. We live within the Yankee lines, and henceBy victor's right our home is free to them. Last night a sergeant and his new-changed guardCame in and asked for supper; a boy and girlI left to wait on them, seeing the table setWith all supplies myself, and then retired. But such their confidence; their talk so loudAnd free, I could not help but hear some wordsThat raised suspicion; then I listened closeAnd heard, 'mid gibe and jest, the enterpriseThat was to flout us; make the LoyalistA cringing slave to sneering rebels; makeThe British lion gnash his teeth with rage;--The Yankee, hand-on-hip, guffawing loudThe while. At once, my British blood was up, Nor had I borne their hated presence more, But for the deeper cause. My husband judgedAs I did, but his helpless frame forbadeHis active interference, so I came, For well we knew your risk, warning denied. 

 _Fitzgibbon_. Alone? You surely did not come alone?

 _Mrs. Secord_. Sir, I have walked the whole way through the woods, For fear of spies, braving all other foes. Nor, since at early morn I left St. David's Mill, Until I met your sentry on the ridge, --Who begged me tell you so, and said "all's well, "--Spoke I, or saw, a soul. Since then, the chief, Whose senior sent him with me for a guide, Has been my kind protector to your post. 

 _Fitzgibbon (to the chief_). I thank you, Mishe-mo-qua, and your chief. 

 (_To Mrs. Secord, bowing_. ) But you, oh; madam, how shall I thank you?You have, indeed, performed a woman's part, A gentle deed; yet at expense of moreThan woman's fitting means. I am not schooledIn courtly phrases, yet may I undertakeTo thank you heartily, not on our partAlone, but in our good King George's name, For act so kind achieved. Knew he your careFor his brave men--I speak for those around--Of whom some fought for him at Copenhagen, He would convey his thanks, and the Queen's, too--Who loves all nobleness--in better termsThan I, his humble servant. AfflictionLeaves him in our hands to do him justice;And justice 'tis, alike to him and you, To thank you in his name, and in the Regent's. 

 _The Soldiers_. Hurray! hurray! hurray!

 [_They toss up their caps_. 

 _Mrs. Secord_. Sir, you make quite too much of my poor service, I have but done my duty; and I begLet me not interrupt your movements now:I would not be an obstacle acrossThe path I made. 

 _Fitzgibbon_. You add an obligation, madam. 

 [_At a signal the men from the next room file in_. 

 (_To the men_. ) We've hot work coming, boys. Our good friend hereHas walked from Queenston, through the woods, this day, To warn me that a sortie from Fort GeorgeIs sent to take this post, and starts e'en now. You, Cummings, mount--you know the way--and rideWith all your might, to tell De Haren this;He lies at Twelve-Mile Creek with larger forceThan mine, and will move up to my support:He'll see my handful cannot keep at bayFive hundred men, or fight in open field. But what strength can't accomplish cunning must--I'll have to circumvent them. 

 [_Exit_ CUMMINGS. 

 (_To Mishe-mo-qua_. ) And you, chief, What will you do? You've stood by me so long, So faithfully, I count upon you now. 

 _Mishe-mo-qua_. White chief say true: we good King George's men. My warriors yell! hide! shoot! hot bullet flyLike dart of Annee-meekee. We keep dam Long-Knife back. I go just now. 

 _Fitzgibbon (handing the chief a twist of tobacco, which he putsinto his girdle with a grunt of satisfaction)_. A Mohawk is myfriend, and you are one. 

 [FITZGIBBON _shakes hands with the_ Chief, _who retires well pleased_. 

 (_To Mrs. Secord_. ) Madam, how may I serve you to secureYour safety? Refreshment comes; but hereIs no protection in our present strait. 

 _Mrs. Secord_. I thank you, sir, but will not tax you moreThan some refreshment. I have friends beyondA mile or two, with whom I'll stay to-night. 

 _Fitzgibbon_. I'll spare an escort; Mr. Jarvis here will--

 [MRS. SECORD _faints_. 

Poor soul! poor soul! she is exhaust indeed. 

(_The men run out and bring water_, Fitzgibbon _gets brandy froma buffet, and_ Mr. Jarvis _unloosens her bonnet and collar. Theybathe her hands with the spirit and sprinkle her face with the water, and at last_ MRS. SECORD _sighs heavily_. )

 _Fitzgibbon_. She's coming to. Back, men; give her more air. 

(MR. JARVIS _and another_ Cadet _support_ MRS. SECORD, _while_ LIEUT. FITZGIBBON _offers her coffee, into which he has poured a little brandy, feeding her with the spoon_. )

 _An 8th man (aside_). She'll never walk to reach her friends to-night. 

 _A 49th man (to a comrade_). Jack, thou an' me can do't. 'Tyent the fust timeWe've swung a faintin' comrade 'twixt us two;An' her's just like a babby. Fatch a poleAn' blanket, an' we'll carry her. 

 _A Sergeant_. You'll then be in the rear, for we're to move. 

 _Second 49th man_. We'll catch ye oop a foight'n'; its summat wuthTo await o' sech as she. 

 _Fitzgibbon (to Mrs. Secord_). Are you better now?

 _Mrs. Secord (trying to stand_). I think I am. Oh, sir, I'm losing youThe time I tried to save! Pray leave me--I shall be better soon, and I can find my way. 

 _Fitzgibbon_. Nay, be not anxious; we are quite prepared. Sheathed though our claws may be, they're always sharp. Pray drink again, nor fear the potent touchThat snatches back the life when the spent heart, Oppressed by cruel tasks, as yours, can scarcely beat. 

 [MRS. SECORD _drinks the coffee, and again rises, but can scarcely stand_. 

 _49th man (saluting_). Sir, me an' Bill has here a hammock ready, An' volunteers to see the lady safe. Among her friends. 

 _Mrs. Secord_. But I can walk. 

 _Fitzgibbon_. Madam, you cannot. Let these carry you;An honour I do grudge them. I shall moveWith better heart knowing you cared for. 

 _Mrs. Secord_. I'll go at once--

 _Fitzgibbon_. Men, bring your hammock hither. 

(_The hammock is brought, and_ MRS. SECORD _is assisted into itby_ LIEUT. FITZGIBBON, _who wraps a blanket round her. The men fallinto line, and salute as she passes. At the door she offers her handto_ FITZGIBBON. )

 _Mrs. Secord_. Farewell, sir. My best thanks for all your goodness, Your hospitality, and this, your escort;You do me too much honour. 

 _Fitzgibbon_. Should we notShow our respect for one has done so muchFor us? We are your debtors, madam. 

 [_He points to the sky, set thick with brilliant stars, the moon having already set_. 

See how the eyes of heaven look down on you, And smile, in gentle approbationOf a most gentle deed. I pray they lightYou safely to your friends. 

 _Mrs. Secord_. And you to victory, sir. Farewell. 

 [FITZGIBBON _bows_. 

 [_Exeunt_ MRS. SECORD _and her escort_. 

 _Fitzgibbon (to the men who have crowded round the door, andare awaiting orders_). Men, never forget this woman's noble deed. Armed, and in company, inspiritedBy crash of martial music, soldiers marchTo duty; but she, alone, defenceless, With no support but kind humanityAnd burning patriotism, ran all our risksOf hurt, and bloody death, to serve us men, Strangers to her save by quick war-time ties. Therefore, in grateful memory and kind return, Ever treat women well. 

 _Men_. Aye, aye, sir. 

 _Fitzgibbon_. Now, then, for action. I need not say, Men, do your duty. The hearts that sprungTo follow Nelson; Brock; have never failed. I'm proud, my men, to be your leader now. 

 * * * * *

SCENE 2. --_Morning twilight. A little wayside tavern at a cross-road_. 

_Enter_ FITZGIBBON, _reconnoitring_. 

 _Fitzgibbon_. They must be pretty near by this time, If they are come at all. 

 (_Two American soldiers of the advanced guard rush out of the tavernand present their rifles_. FITZGIBBON _springs on them, and, seizing each man's weapon, crosses them in front of himself_. )

Not yet, my friends. 

 [_They struggle, and one of the Americans draws_ FITZGIBBON'S _sword and is about to plunge it in his shoulder_. 

_Enter a woman, the_ tavern-keeper. 

 _Woman_. Ye Yankee rogue! ye coward!

 [_She snatches the sword, and runs into the tavern with it_. 

 _Fitzgibbon_. Take that! and that!

 [_He trips up one man, and knocks the other down, putting his foot on the man's breast_. 

Now, give me up your arms. 

 [_They give up their arms_. 

_Enter_ FITZGIBBON'S _command_. 

Here, Sergeant, march them in and set a guard. 

 [_They are marched into the tavern. Shots are heard_. 

 _Fitsgibbon_. They're come! Quick--march, my lads. 

 * * * * *

SCENE 3. --_The beech ridge. Frequent firing. The Indian war-whoop. Bugles sounding the advance_. 

_Enter_ LIEUT. FITZGIBBON _and_ COL. THOMAS CLARKE. 

 _Fitzgibbon_. The Mohawks have done well; and I am gladTo have your help, sir, too. What is your strength?

 _Clarke_. But twenty, sir, all told. 

 _Fitzgibbon_. And I but thirty. Too few to fight such forceIn open field. But Boerstler's lost his head:Deluded by our calls, your fierce attack, And Indian fighting--which to them has ghostsOf their own raising--scalps, treachery, what not. There is our chance: I mean to summon himTo a surrender. 

 _Clarke (in great surprise)_. Sir!

 _Fitzgibbon_. 'Tis a bold stroke, I grant, and if it failWhy then I'll fight it out. Keep up the scareSome moments longer, and we'll see. 

 _Clarke_. Good luck betide so brave a word;I'll do my best. 

 [_Exit_ COL. CLARKE. 

_Enter the American force in some confusion_. 

(FITZGIBBON _sends forward a flag of truce; the bugles sound "Ceasefiring;" an officer advances from the American lines and_ FITZGIBBON_goes forward to meet him_. )

 _Fitzgibbon_. Sir, with my compliments to your commander, I am the leader of this large detachment, Backed closely up by reinforcementsLarger still. Indians, our good allies, Swarm in the woods around; and in your rearA strong militia force awaits my orders:Therefore, sir, to save a useless lossOf brave men's lives, I offer you fair termsOf full surrender. 

 _American officer_. I will report, sir, To Colonel Boerstler. 

 [_Exit_. 

 _Fitzgibbon_ (_aside)_. And I will pray. For after all in God's hand lies the day:I've done the best I know. 

_Enter the American officer and an orderly_. 

 _American officer_. Sir, with respect, our colonel bids me sayThat, seeing fate and fortune both uniteTo mar success, he'll rather save his menBy fair surrender, than waste their livesIn useless struggle. He commissions meTo act in drawing up the terms. I am McDowell, captain of a troop. 

 _Fitzgibbon_ (_bowing)_. Your humble servant, sir. We'll try to pleaseYour colonel; rejoicing we have met a foeWho knows the bravery of discretion. 

_Enter_ COL. CLARKE, CAPT. KERR, _of the Indian contingent, and_MISHE-MO-QUA. 

 (_The British officers consult, and then invite_ CAPT. MCDOWELL_to join them. A drum is brought, Major De Haren produces writingmaterials; and terms of capitulation are drawn up, which are read to_CAPT. MCDOWELL. )

 _Fitzgibbon_. Our terms we make as light as possible:I hope you'll find them so, sir. 

 _Capt. McDowell_ (_after reading_). Terms generous and honourable sir;I thank you. A noble foe is always half a friend. I'll carry them to Colonel Boerstler, With your consent. 

 [FITZGIBBON _bows_. 

 [_Exit_ CAPT. MCDOWELL. 

_Enter_ MAJOR DE HAREN, _who hastens to greet_ LIEUT. FITZGIBBON. 

 _Major De Haren_. Why, what is this, Fitzgibbon, that I hear?That with your little handful you have caughtFive hundred enemy? A very elephant!

 _Fitzgibbon_. A strait like mine required some strategy. 

 _De Haren_. My dear, brave fellow, you have surely wonThe golden epaulettes! How glad I amI was not here before. Such tact! such skill!You are a soldier born. But who comes hither?

_Enter_ COL. BOERSTLER, CAPT. MCDOWELL _and other American officers_. 

 _Fitzgibbon_. These are the officers to sign our terms. 

 [_The officers on both sides salute_. 

 _Boerstler_ (_to Fitzgibbon_). I thank you, sir, for honourable terms, For vain it was to cope with force like yours. But ne'er I thought to put my hand to suchA document. 

 [_He takes up the pen_. 

 _Fitzgibbon_. Fortune of war, sir, that we all may meet. 

 [_Each officer signs the document in his order_; MISHE-MO-QUA _draws his totem--a bear--as his signature_. 

 _De Haren_ (_to Col. Boerstler_). Will you proceed on the third article?

 _Boerstler_ (_to Capt. McDowell_). Give you the order. 

 [_Exit_ CAPT. MCDOWELL. 

 _Fitzgibbon_ (_to his men, who are drawn up across the road-- De Haren's command forming their right and left wings_). Forward--ten paces. 

 [_Enter by companies the American force, who lay down their arms in front of the British officers and defile to the rear_. 

 _De Haren_ (_to Fitzgibbon_). A glorious day for you, Fitzgibbon;For this fair Canada, and British arms. 

 _Fitzgibbon_. Yes, thanks to a brave woman's glorious deed. 

 [_Exeunt_. 

 * * * * *

POEMS

A BALLAD OF 1812. 

Now hush the martial trumpet's blare, And tune the softer lyre;Nor shrink lest gentler tones should lack The high, heroic fire:

For many a valiant deed is done, And great achievement wrought, Whose inspiration knows no source Save pure and holy thought. 

Nor think some lofty pedestal, Proud-lifted towards the skies, The only plane where Worth can wrest From Fame her highest prize:

For many a nameless nook and lone, And many a tongueless hour, Sees deeds performed whose glories shame The pride of pomp and power. 

Nor dream that to a noble deed It needs a noble name;Or that to mighty act achieved Must link a stalwart frame:

For strung by Duty's steady hand, And thrilled by Love's warm touch, Slight forms and simple names may serve At need, to avail for much. 

Then lay the blaring trumpet by, And tune the softer lyreTo songs of Woman's chivalry, Of Woman's patriot fire. 

I. 

O heard ye not of Queenston Heights, -- Of Brock who fighting fell, --And of the Forty-ninth and York, Who 'venged their hero well?--

And of the gallant stand they made-- What prowess kept at bayThe swelling foe, till Sheaffe appeared, And won the glorious day!

Yet heard ye how--ban of success-- Irresolution ruled, Till all our green peninsula And border-land, were schooled

To bear, nathless all frowningly, The yoke of alien power, And wait in patience, as they might, The dawn of happier hour. 

Till Forty-mile, and Stony Creek, Revived our waning hopes, And round Fort-George a limit held The Yankees as with ropes. 

Yet, as do cordons oft enclose The unwilling with the fain, Our people, by forced parole held, Could naught but own the rein. 

Then heard ye how a little post. Some twenty miles away, A check upon proud Dearborn's hopes, Was fixed upon for prey?

And how lest Britain's bull-dog pluck, Roused by their isolation, Should make these few, brave, lonely men, Fight as in desperation, And prove a match for thrice their odds, They made them three times three, And thrice of that, with guns to boot, To insure a victory?

Then they would take the Night along --No mean ally with odds, As Stony Creek can testify: But then she marched with gods!--

Yet blame ye not the silent Night That she was forced to go, For oft have captives been compelled To serve the hated foe:

And oft with grave and quiet mien, And Samson-like intent, Have brought about such ends, as by Their lords were never meant. 

Then blame ye not the dark-eyed Night, Of grave and silent mien;Her whisper 'twas that foiled the foe, And fired our patriot queen. 

II. 

"And why, my husband, why so pale?" 'Twas Laura Secord spoke;And when she heard his plaintive tale, Then all the patriot woke. 

"Thou knowest how Fitzgibbon holds The post at Beaver Dams, And Dearborn frets, and fumes, and chafes, And calls us British shams:

"Because we will not, willing, give, To feed an alien foe, The substance, all too poor and sparse, Our stinted fields may grow. 

"So when the Night puts on her robes Of sad and sable hue, A host he sends, of shameful strength, To oust that noble few. 

"And who shall warn Fitzgibbon? Who? My weakness is my bale;At such an hour of pressing need, O that my aid should fail!

"And yet, my country, if my blood, Drawn from me drop by drop, Could save thee in this awful strait, 'Twere thine, 'twere thine, to stop

"This massacre, this horrid crime, To baulk this wicked plot!My parole given!--by Heaven I could-- I Would--regard it not. 

"But here am I, a cripple weak; Great Heaven! and must they fallBecause I, wretched I alone, Know what will sure befall!"

"Calm thee, my husband, calm thee now. Heaven ne'er points out a deed, But to the creature by whose means Its action is decreed:

"Thou, had'st thou not been sick and lame, Would'st ne'er have learned this plot, And had'st thou strength thou could'st not pass The lines, and not be shot. 

"Wherefore, 'tis plain, 'tis not to thee The careful task is given;'Tis rather me; and I will go, Safe in the care of Heaven. "

"Thou go, dear wife! a woman soft, And not too brave to shakeAt sight of wolf or catamount, Or many-rattled snake:

"Thou go!" "Nay, smile not, I will go; Fitzgibbon shall not fallUnwarned at least; and Heaven will guard Its messenger-in-thrall. "

III. 

Scarce had Aurora backward drawn The curtains of the night, Scarce had her choristers awaked The echoes with delight;

When Laura Secord left her home, With holy message fraught, And lone Fitzgibbon's distant post With hasty footsteps sought. 

She chides the harsh-tongued sentinel Whose musket stops her way, And hies her from his curious sight In such sort as she may. 

A second bars her forward path, Nor will he be content;And all her woman's wit she needs Before his doubts are spent. 

Beyond, a third the challenge gives;-- She almost gasps for breath--"Oh, at the Mill my brother lies Just at the point of death. "

But he nor cares for death nor life: Yet when she kneels and weeps, He yields: for--in his rugged heart A tender memory sleeps. 

With beating heart and trembling limb, Swift hastes she; yet in ruthThat even for her country's sake, She needs must veil the truth. 

And when a rise of ground permits A last, fond, lingering look, She, tearful, views her home once more-- A lowly, leafy nook. 

For there her sleeping children lie Unconscious of her woe;Her choking sobs may not be stayed, For oh, she loves them so!

And there she leaves her maiden choice, Her husband, lover, friend. Oh, were she woman could she less To homely sorrows lend!

On altar of the public weal Must private griefs expire, --Her tender grief exhaled to Heaven On wings of patriot fire. 

The dew still glistened on the grass, The morning breezes swungThe honeysuckle and the rose, Above, whose sweetness hung. 

The fritil' butterfly, the bee, Whose early labours cheer, And point the happy industry That marks the opening year. 

The cheerful robin's sturdy note, The gay canary's trill, Blent with the low of new-milked kine That sauntered by the rill:

When Laura Secord stood beside The doomed St. David's door, Whose portals never closed upon The weary or the poor. 

"O sister, " cries the widowed dame, "What trouble brings you here?Doth Jamie ail? Hath aught arisen To mar your fettered cheer?"

"Nor aileth any at the farm, Nor is our cheer less free, But I must haste to Beaver Dam, Fitzgibbon there to see. 

"For many a foe this coming night, To take him by surprise, Is detailed, and he must be warned Before the moon doth rise. "

O pallid grew the gentle dame, And tremulous her tone, As Laura Secord, at the board, Made all her errand known. 

And oft her pallor turned to red, By indignation fired;And oft her red to pallor turned, For Laura's sake retired. 

And many a cogent argument She used, of duteous wives;And many more that mothers thus Should never risk their lives. 

And of the dangers of the way She told a trembling tale;But to divert a settled mind Nor words nor woes avail. 

And many a tear she let down fall, And some dropt Laura too, --But "'Tis my country!" yet she cried, "My country may not rue. "

A tender leave she gently takes Of him all wounded laidUpon his weary couch of pain, But hides her errand sad. 

And then, while yet the day was young, The sun scarce quarter high, She plunges 'mid the sheltering bush, In fear of hue and cry, --

Of hue and cry of cruel foes Who yet might learn her route, And mad with rage of baffled aim, Should spring in hot pursuit. 

On, on she speeds through bush and brake, O'er log and stone and briar;On, on, for many a lengthening mile Might stouter footsteps tire. 

The hot sun mounts the upper skies, Faint grows the fervid air, And wearied nature asks for rest Mid scenes so soft and fair. 

The sward all decked with rainbow hues, The whispering of the trees, Nor perfumed airs of flowery June, Can win her to her ease. 

Ah, serpent in our Paradise! In choicest cup our gall!'Twas thou, distraught Anxiety, Wrapped Beauty's self in pall;

And for that lonely traveller Empoisoned those sweet springs, To souls that languish, founts of life Bestirred by angel wings. 

Thou gavest each breeze an infant's cry, A wailing, woesome tone;And in each call of wildwood bird Spoke still of freedom gone. 

Nay now, why starts she in her path, By yonder tangled brake?'Tis at the dreaded menace sprung By angry rattlesnake. 

But know that fear is not the brand That marks the coward slave;'Tis conquered fear, and duty done, That tells the truly brave. 

With stick, and stone, and weapon mean She drives the wretch away, And then, with fluttering heart, pursues Her solitary way. 

And oft she trips, and oft she falls, And oft her gown is torn, And oft her tender skin is pierced By many a clutching thorn. 

And weariness her courage tries; And dread of devious way;And oft she hears the wild-cat shriek A requiem o'er its prey. 

And when the oppressive summer air Hangs heavy in the woods, --Though many a bank of flowerets fair Invites to restful moods;

And though the ruby humming-bird Drones with the humming bee;And every gnat and butterfly Soars slow and fitfully;

No rest that anxious messenger Of baleful tidings takes, But all the waning afternoon Her morning speed she makes. 

Over the hills, and 'mongst the brier, And through the oozy swamp, Her weary steps must never tire Ere burns the firefly's lamp. 

Oh, wherefore drops she on her knees, And spreads imploring hands?Why blanches that courageous brow? Alas! the wolves' dread bands!

"Nay, not this death, dear Father! Not A mangled prey to these!"She faintly cries to Heaven, from out The darkening waste of trees. 

Fear not, O patriot, courage take, Thy Father holds thy hand, Nor lets the powers of ill prevail Where He doth take command. 

Away the prowling ghouls are fled, Some fitter prey to seek;The trembling woman sighs the thanks Her white lips cannot speak. 

IV. 

Now wherefore halts that sentry bold, And lays his piece in rest, As from the shadowy depths below One gains the beechen crest?

'Tis but a woman, pale and faint, -- As woman oft may prove, Whose eagle spirit soars beyond The home-flight of the dove. 

How changes now the sentry's mien, How soft his tones and low, As Laura Secord tells her tale Of an impendent foe!

"God bless thee, now, thou woman bold, And give thee great reward. "The soldier says, with eyes suffused, And keeps a jealous guard, As onward, onward still she goes, With steady step and true, Towards her goal, yet far away, Hid in the horizon blue. 

Behind her grows the golden moon, Before her fall the shades, And somewhere near her hides the bird Whose death-call haunts the glades. 

The early dew blooms all the sod, The fences undulateIn the weird light, like living lines That swell with boding hate. 

For she has left the tangled woods, And keeps the open plainWhere once a fruitful farm-land bloomed, And yet shall bloom again. 

And now, as nears the dreaded hour. Her goal the nearer grows, And hope, the stimulus of life, Her weary bosom glows. 

Toward's lone Decamp's--whose ancient home Affords Fitzgibbon's bandSuch shelter as the soldier asks Whose life hangs on his brand--

A steady mile or so, and then-- Ah, what is't rends the airWith horrent, blood-encurdling tones. The tocsin of despair!

It is the war-whoop of the braves, Of Kerr's famed Mohawk crew, Who near Fitzgibbon ambushed lie To serve that lonely few. 

Startled, yet fearless, on she speeds. "Your chief denote, " she cries;And, proudly towering o'er the crowd, The chief does swift arise. 

Fierce rage is in his savage eye, His tomahawk in air;"Woman! what woman want?" he cries, "Her death does woman dare!"

But quickly springs she to his side, And firmly holds his arm, "Oh, chief, indeed no, spy am I, But friend to spare you harm. "

And soon she makes her errand known, And soon, all side by side, The red man and his sister brave In silence quickly glide. 

And as the moon surmounts the trees, They gain the sentried door, And faintly to Fitzgibbon she Unfolds her tale once more. 

Then, all her errand done, she seeks A lowly dwelling near, And sinks, a worn-out trembling thing, Too faint to shed a tear. 

V. 

Now let the Lord of Hosts be praised! Cheer brave Fitzgibbon's band, Whose bold discretion won the day, And saved our threatened land!

And cheer that weary traveller, On lowly couch that lies, And scarce can break the heavy spell. That holds her waking eyes. 

No chaplet wreathes her aching brows. No paeans rend the air;But in her breast a jewel glows The tried and true may wear. 

And Time shall twine her wreath of bays Immortal as her fame, And many a generation joy, In Laura Secord's name. 

"Fitzgibbon and the Forty-ninth!" Whene'er ye drink that toastTo brave deeds done a grateful land, Praise Laura Secord most. 

As one who from the charged mine Coils back the lighted fuse, 'T was hers, at many a fearful risk, To carry fateful news;

And save the dreadnought band; and give To Beaver Dam a name, The pride of true Canadian hearts, Of others, but the shame. 

VI. 

Now wherefore trembles still the string By lyric fingers crossed, To Laura Secord's praise and fame, When forty years are lost?

Nay, five and forty, one by one, Have borne her from the dayWhen, fired by patriotic zeal, She trod her lonely way:

Her hair is white, her step is slow, Why kindles then her eye, And rings her voice with music sweet Of many a year gone by?

O know ye not proud Canada, With joyful heart, enfoldsIn fond embrace, the royal boy Whose line her fealty holds?

For him she spreads her choicest cheer, And tells her happiest tale, And leads him to her loveliest haunts, That naught to please may fail. 

And great art thou, O Chippewa, Though small in neighbours' eyes, When out Niagara's haze thou seest A cavalcade arise;

And, in its midst, the royal boy, Who, smiling, comes to seeAn ancient dame whose ancient fame Shines in our history. 

He takes the thin and faded hand, He seats him at her side, Of all that gay and noble band, That moment well the pride:

To him the aged Secord tells, With many a fervid glow, How, by her means, Fitzgibbon struck His great historic blow. 

Nor deem it ye, as many do, A weak and idle thingThat, at that moment Laura loved The praises of a king;

And dwelt on his approving smile, And kissed his royal hand, Who represented, and should wield, The sceptre of our land;

For where should greatness fire her torch, If not at greatness' shrine?And whence should approbation come Did not the gods incline?

VII. 

And when, from o'er the parting seas, A royal letter came, And brought a gift to recognize Brave Laura Secord's fame. 

What wonder that her kindling eye Should fade, suffused in tears?What wonder that her heart should glow, Oblivious of the years?

And honour ye the kindly grace Of him who still hath beenIn all things kindly, and the praise Of our beloved Queen. 

THE QUEEN'S JUBILEE, JUNE 21ST, 1887. 

 A Jubilee! A Jubilee!Waft the glad shout across the laughing sea! A Jubilee! A Jubilee! O bellsRing out our gladness on your merry peals!

O thou, the root and flower of this our joy, Well may thy praise our grateful hearts employ!Fair as the moon and glorious as the sun, Thy fame to many a future age shall run. 

"I WILL BE GOOD. " 'Twas thus thy judgment spake, When, greatness would allure for greatness' sake. Thou _hast_ been good: herein thy strength hath lain;And not thine only, it hath been our gain:Nor ours alone, for every people's voice, Because thou hast been good, doth now rejoice. Beneath the shelter of that fruitful vine--Thy goodness--hath pure Virtue reared her shrine. Freedom hath lift her flag, and flung it free, Rejoicing in a god-like liberty. Truth hath her gracious lineaments revealedTo humble souls, beneath Victoria's shield. Mercy, whose message bore thy first command, Hath carried festival to every land. Justice hath worn his robes unsmirched of gold;Nor longer strikes in vengeance, as of old. Kind Pity, wheresoe'er the tried might be, Widow, and babe, hath borne a balm from thee. Valour hath drawn his sword with surer aim:And Peace hath signed her treaties in thy name. Honour hath worn his plumes with nobler grace:And Piety pursued her readier race. Learning hath pressed where ne'er she walked before:And Science touched on realms undreamt of yore. Commerce hath spread wide wings o'er land and sea, And spoken nations glorious yet to be. Before the light of Temperance' purer grace. Excess hath veiled his spoiled and purpled face. And never since the peopled world beganSaw it so strong the brotherhood of man. Great glory thus hath gathered round thy name, --VICTORIA. QUEEN. Goodness hath been thy fame, And greatness shall be, for the twain are one:As thy clear eye discerned ere rule begun. O Queen, receive anew our homage free:Our love and praise on this thy Jubilee. 

THE HERO OF ST. HELEN'S ISLAND. 

CANADA'S TRIBUTE TO THE TWENTY-FOURTH (2ND WARWICKSHIRE) REGIMENT. 

 O the roaring and the thunder! O the terror and the wonder!O the surging and the seething of the flood! O the tumbling and the rushing-- O the grinding and the crushing--O the plunging and the rearing of the ice! When the great St. Lawrence River, With a mighty swell and shiver, Bursts amain the wintry bonds that hold him fast. 

 'Twas on an April morning-- And the air was full of warningOf the havoc and the crash that was to be. -- A deed was done, whose glory Flames from out the simple story, Like the living gleam of diamond in the mine. 'Twas where St. Mary's Ferry In sweet summer makes so merry, 'Twixt St. Helen's fortressed isle and Montreal, There, on an April morning, -- As if in haughty scorningOf the tale soft Zephyr told in passing by-- Firm and hard, like road of Roman, Under team of sturdy yeoman, Or the guns, the ice lay smooth, and bright, and cold. And watching its resistance To the forces in the distanceThat nearer and yet nearer ever rolled, Warning off who tempt the crossing, All too soon so wildly tossing, Stood a party of Old England's Twenty-Fourth. While as yet they gazed in wonder, Sudden boomed the awful thunderThat proclaimed the mighty conqueror at hand. O then the fierce uplifting! The trembling, and the rifting!The tearing, and the grinding, and the throes! The chaos and careering, The toppling and the rearing, The crashing and the dashing of the floes!

 At such an awful minute A glance, --the horror in it!--Showed a little maiden midway twixt the shores, With hands a-clasp and crying. And, amid the masses, trying, --Vainly trying--to escape on either hand. O child so rashly daring! Who thy dreadful peril sharingShall, to save thee, tempt the terrors of the flood That roaring, leaping, swirling, And continuously whirling, Threats to whelm in frightful deeps thy tender form! The helpless soldiers, standing On a small precarious landing, Think of nothing but the child and her despair, When a voice as from the Highest, -- To the child he being nighest--Falls _"Quick-march!"_ upon the ear of Sergeant Neill. O blessed sense of duty! As on banderole of dutyHis unswerving eye he fixes on the child; And straight o'er floe and fissure, Fragments yielding to his pressure, Toppling berg, and giddy block, he takes his way;

 Sometimes climbing, sometimes crawling. Sometimes leaping, sometimes falling, Till at last he stands where cowers the weeping child. Then with all a victor's bearing. As in warlike honours sharing, With the child all closely clasped upon his breast, O'er floe and hummock taking Any step for safety making, On he goes, till they who watch can see no more. 

 For both glass and light are failing. As the ice-pack, slowly sailing, Bears him onward past the shore of far Longueil. "Lost!" his comrades cry, and turning. Eyes cast down, and bosoms burning, Gain the shelter of their quiet barrack home; Where, all night, the tortured father Clasps the agonizing mother. In the mute embrace of hopelessness and dread. O the rapid alternations When the loud reverberationsOf the evening gun boom forth the hour of rest! The suffering and the sorrow! The praying for the morrow!The fears, the hopes, that tear the parents breasts! And many a word is spoken At the mess, so sadly broken, Of the men who mourn their comrade brave and true And many a tear-drop glistens, Where a watching mother listensTo the tumult of the ice along the shore. And ever creeping nearer, Children hold each other dearer, In the gaps of slumber broken by its roar. 

 Twice broke the rosy dawning Of a sunny April morning, And Hope had drooped her failing wings, to die; When o'er the swelling river, Like an arrow from a quiver, Came the news of rescue, safety, glad return; And the mother, as from Heaven, Clasped her treasure, newly-given;And the father wrung the hand of Sergeant Neill: Who shrunk from their caressing, Nor looked for praise or blessing, But straight returned to duty and his post. 

 And this the grateful story, To others' praise and glory, That the Sergeant told his comrades round the fire. 

 "Far down the swelling river, To the ocean flowing ever, With its teeming life of porpoise, fish, and seal, There hardy, brave, and daring, Dwells the _habitant_; nor caringSave to make his frugal living by his skill. Nor heeds he of the weather, For scale, and fur, and feather, Lay their tribute in his hand the year around. On the sunny April morning, That the ice had given warningOf the havoc and the crash that was to be, Stood Pierre, Louis, gazing, Their prayers to Mary raising, For a season full of bounty from the sea. And when the light was failing, And the ice-pack, slowly-sailing, Crashing, tumbling, roaring, thundering, passed them by, Their quick eye saw with wonder, On the masses torn asunder, An unfortunate who drifted to his doom. 

 "O then the exclamations! The rapid preparations!The launching of canoes upon the wave! The signalling and shouting!-- Death and disaster flouting--The anxious haste, the strife, a human life to save Across the boiling surges, Each man his light bark urges, Though death is in the error of a stroke; And paddling, poising, drifting, O'er the floes the light shell lifting, The gallant fellows reach the whirling pack: And from the frightful danger, They save the worn-out stranger. And oh, to see the nursling in his arms! And oh, the pious caring, The sweet and tender faring, From the gentle hands of Marie and Louise! And the pretty, smiling faces, As the travellers take their placesTo return again to those who weep their loss. 

 And the Sergeant's story ending, His head in rev'rence bending, He cried "God bless for ever all noble souls like these!" But cheer on cheer resounded, Till the officers, astoundedAt their mess, upon their sword-hilts clapped their hands. And the plaudits rose still higher, When they joined with martial fire, In the cry "God bless the Twenty-Fourth, and its gallant Sergeant Neill!"

OCTOBER 13TH, 1872. 

A PLEA FOR THE VETERANS OF 1812. 

Forget not, Canada, the men who gave, In fierce and bloody fray, their lives for thine. Pause thou, Ontario, in thy forward march, And give a tear to those who, long ago, On this day fell upon those Heights where nowTheir ashes rest beneath memorial pile. And while those names, BROCK and MACDONELL, wakeA throb of emulative gratitudeAnd patriotic fervour in thy breast, Forget not those--"the boys, " the nameless ones, --Who also fought and fell on that October day;Nameless their ashes, but their memories dear! Remember, too, Those grandsires at thy hearths who linger still;Whose youthful arms then helped to guard thy peace, Thy peace their own. And ere they go to joinTheir ancient comrades of the hard-won fight, Glad their brave hearts with one applauding cheerIn memory of the day. Comfort their ageWith plenty. Let them find that sturdy youth, Whose heritage they saved, bows rev'rent head, And lends a strong right arm to ancient men, Whose deeds of patriot prowess deck the silkThat waves so proudly from the nation's towers. 

LOYAL. 

 "The Loyalists having sacrificed their property to their politics, were generally poor, and had to work hard and suffer many privations before they could reap crops to support their families. In those early days there were no merchants, no bakeries, no butchers' shop's, no medical men to relieve the fevered brain or soothe a mother's aching heart, no public house, no minister to console the dying or bury the dead, no means of instruction for the young; all was bush, hard labour and pinching privation for the present, and long toil for the rising generations. " REV. G. A. ANDERSON, _Protestant Chaplain to the Reformatory, Penetanguishene_. 

O Ye, who with your blood and sweat Watered the furrows of this land, --See where upon a nation's brow In honour's front, ye proudly stand!

Who for her pride abased your own, And gladly on her altar laidAll bounty of the older world, All memories that your glory made. 

And to her service bowed your strength, Took labour for your shield and crest;See where upon a nation's brow Her diadem, ye proudly test!

ON QUEENSTON HEIGHTS. 

 I stood on Queenston Heights;And as I gazed from tomb to cenotaph, From cenotaph to tomb, adown and up, My heart grew full, much moved with many thoughts. At length I cried:"O robed with honour and with glory crowned, Tell me again the story of yon pile. "And straight the ancient, shuddering cedars wept, The solemn junipers indued their pall, The moaning wind crept through the trembling oaksAnd, shrieking, fled. Strange clamour filled the air;The steepy hill shook with the rush of arms;Around me rolled the tide of sudden war. The booming guns pealed forth their dreadful knell;Musketry rattled; shouts, cries, groans, were heard;Men met as foes, and deadly strife ensued. From side to side the surging combat rolled, And as it rolled, passed from my ken. A silence! On the hill an alien flagFlies flaunting in the wind, mocking the gun. Dark forms pour o'er the heights, and Britain's dayBroods dark. But hark! a ringing cheer peals up the heightOnce more the battle's tide bursts on my view. Brock to the rescue! Down goes the alien flag!Back, back the dark battalions fall. On, onThe "Tigers" come. Down pours the rattling shotFrom out the verdant grove, like sheets of hail. Up, up they press, York volunteers and all. Aha! the day is ours! See, where the hero comesIn conquering might, quick driving all before him!O brave ensample! O beloved chief!Who follows thee keeps ever pace with honour. Shout Victory! Proud victory is ours!Ours, noble Brock!

Ours? DEATH'S! _Death wins;_ THE DAY IS HIS. 

Ah! shudder still ye darkling cedars, Chant yet your doleful monotone, ye winds;Indue again your grey funereal pall, Ye solemn junipers; for here he fell, And here he lies, --dust; ashes; nothing. 

Such tale the hill-side told me, and I wept. Nay! I wept _not!_ The hot, indignant thoughtsThat filled my breast burned up the welling tearsEre they had chance to flow, and forward HateSpake rashly. But calm ReflectionLaid her cool hand upon my throbbing browAnd whispered, "As up the misty streamThe _Norseman_ crept to-day, and signals whiteWaved kind salutes from yon opposing shore;And as ye peered the dusky vista through, To catch first glimpse of yonder glorious plinth, Yet saw it not till _I_ your glance directed, --So high it towered above the common plane;--So, towering over Time, shall Brock e'er stand. --So, from those banks, shall white-robed Peace e'er smile. 

_October 12, 1881_. 

NEW ORLEANS, MONROE, MAYOR, APRIL 29, 1862. 

 * * * * *

THE HAULING DOWN OF THE STATE FLAG FROM OVER THE CITY HALL. 

 "The crowd flowed in from every direction and filled the street in a compact mass both above and below the square. They were silent, but angry and threatening. An open way was left in front of the hall, and their force being stationed, Captain Bell and Lieutenant Kantz passed across the street, mounted the hall steps and entered the Mayor's parlour. Approaching the Mayor, Captain Bell said: "I have come in obedience to orders to haul down the State flag from this building. " ... As soon as the two officers left the room Mr. Monroe also went out. Descending the front steps he walked out into the street, and placed himself immediately in front of the howitzer pointing down St. Charles Street. There, folding his arms, he fixed his eyes upon the gunner who stood, lanyard in hand, ready for action. Here he remained without once looking up or moving, until the flag had been hauled down by Lieutenant Kantz, and he and Captain Bell reappeared.... As they passed out through the Camp Street gate, Mr. Monroe turned towards the hall, and the people, who had hitherto preserved the silence he had asked from them, broke into cheers for their Mayor. " MARION A. BAKER, _in July (1886) Century_. 

A noble man! a man deserving trust. A man in whom the higher elementsWorked freely. A man of dignity;On whom the robes and badge of state sat wellBecause the majesty of self-control, And all its grace, were his. I see him now--Pale with the pallor of a full, proud heart--Descend those steps and take his imminent placeBefore the deadly piece, as who should say"'Ware ye! these people are my people; suchTheir inward heat and mine at this poor deedThat scarce we can control our kindled blood. But should ye mow them down, ye mow me too. 'Ware ye!" O men for whose dear sake he stoodAn offering and a hostage; on that scrollOld Chronos doth unfold along the yearsAre writ in gold names of undaunted Mayors, Pepin and Charlemagne, and WhittingtonAnd White. Did not your fathers know them?And shall not he, your Mayor of 'Sixty-two, Monroe, stand side by side with them?

THE EMIGRANT'S SONG. 

I. 

No work, no home, no wealth have I, But Mary loves me true, And, for her sake, upon my knees I'd beg the wide world through:For her sweet eyes look into mine With fondness soft and deep;My heart's entranced, and I could die Were death a conscious sleep. 

II. 

But life is work, and work is life, And life's the way to heaven, And hand-in-hand we'd like to go The road that God has given. And England, dear old Motherland, Has plenty mouths to feedWithout her sons and daughters fair, Whose strength is as their need. 

III. 

To Canada! To Canada! To that fair land I'll roam, And till the soil with heart of grace, For Mary and a home. Hurrah for love! Hurrah for hope! Hurrah for industry!Hurrah for bonnie Canada, And her bonnie maple tree!

TO THE INDIAN SUMMER. 

And art thou come again, sweet Indian maid!How beautiful thou art where thou dost stand, With step arrested, on the bridge that joinsThe Past and Future--thy one hand wavingFarewell to Summer, whose fond kiss hath setThy yellow cheeks aglow, the other stretchedTo greet advancing Winter!Nor can thy veil, tissue diaphanousOf crimsoned haze, conceal thy lustrous eyes;--Those eyes in whose dark depths a tear-drop lurksReady to fall, for Beauty loved and lost. From thy point gazing, maiden, let us, too, Once more behold the panorama fairOf the lost year. See where, far down yon slopeThat meets the sun, doth quick advance gay Spring, His dainty fingers filled with swelling buds:O'er his wreathed head, among the enlacing trees, The merry birds flit in and out, to chooseA happy resting-place; and singing rillsDwell on his praise. Gladly his laughing eyesRest on fair Summer's zone set thick with flowers, That chide their own profusion as, tiptoe, And arm outstretched, she reaches to restoreThe fallen nestling, venturous and weak:While many a nursling claims her tender care. Beneath her smile all Nature doth rejoice, And breaks into a song that sweeps the plainWhere now the swarthy Autumn, girded close, Gathers his yellow sheaves and juicy fruitTo overflowing garners; measure full, And blest to grateful souls. Through the low airA myriad wings circle in restless sort;And from the rustling woods there comes a soundOf dropping nuts and acorns--welcome storeTo little chipmunk and to squirrel blithe:Dependants small on Nature's wide largesse. How doth the enchanting picture fill our soulsWith faith! Sweet Indian maid, we turn with theeAnd greet gray Winter with a trustful smile. 

IN JUNE. 

I cannot sleep, and morning's earliest light, All soft and rosy, tempts my restlessnessTo ask from Nature what of peace she gives. I gaze abroad, and all my soul is movedAt that strange calm that floats o'er earth at rest. The silver sickle of the summer moonHangs on the purple east. The morning star, Like a late watcher's lamp, pales in the dawn. Yonder, the lake, that 'neath the midday sunAll restless glows and burns like burnished shield, Lies as a child at rest with curtain drawn. The forest trees are still. The babbling creekFlows softly through the copse and glides away;And the fair flowers, that lie as thick and sweetAs posies at a bridal, sleep quietly. No early breeze his perfumed wings unfolds. No painted butterfly to pleasure wakes. The bees, whose busy hum pervades the hoursThrough all the sultry day, keep yet the hive. And, save the swallow, whose long line of worksBeneath each gable, points to labours vast, No bird yet stirs. Upon the dewy meadThe kine repose; the active horse lies prone;And the white ewes doze o'er their tender lambs, Like village mothers with their babes at breast. So still, so fair, so calm, the morning broods, That, while I know the gairish day will come, And bring its clouds of gnat-like stinging cares, Rest steals into my heart, and gentle peace. 

LIVINGSTONE. 

OBIT MAY 1ST, 1883. 

Sleep now and take thy rest, thou mighty dead!Thy work is done--thy grand and glorious work. Not "Caput Nili" shall thy trophy be. But _broken slave-sticks and a riven chain_. As the man Moses, thy great prototype, Snatched, by the hand of God, his groaning millionsFrom out the greedy clutch of Egypt's despot;So hast thou done for Afric's toiling sons:Hast snatched its peoples from the poisonous fangsOf hissing Satan, veiled in commerce foul. For this thy fame shall ring; for this thy praiseShall be in every mouth for ever. Ay, Thy true human heart hath here its guerdon--A continent redeemed from slavery. --To this, how small the other! Yet 'twas great. Ah, not in vain those long delays, those groansWrung from thy patient soul by obstacle, The work of peevish man; these were the checksFrom that Hand guiding, that led thee all the way. _He_ willed thy soul should vex at tyranny;Thine ear should ring with murdered women's shrieks, That torturing famine should thy footsteps clog;That captive's broken hearts should ache thine own. And Slavery--that villain plausible--That thief Gehazi!--He stripped before thine eyesAnd showed him all a leper, foul, accursed. _He_ touched thy lips, and every word of thineVibrates on chords whose deep electric thrillShall never cease till that wide wound be healed. And then He took thee home. Ay, home, great heart!Home to _His_ home, where never envious tongue, Nor vile detraction, nor base ingratitude, Nor cold neglect, shall sting the quiv'ring heart. Thou endedst well. One step from earth to Heaven, When His voice called "Friend, come up higher. "

ON SEEING THE ENGRAVING

"THE FIRST VISIT OF QUEEN VICTORIA TO HER WOUNDEDSOLDIERS ON THEIR RETURN FROM THE CRIMEA. "

Yes, go to them, the brave, the tried, the hurt--'Tis very fitting so! _We_ cannot go--Some scores of million souls--to tell them all We think and feel:To ease the burden of our laden hearts;To give the warm grasp of our British handsIn strong assurance of our praise and love;Of our deep gratitude, to them, our friends, Our _brothers_, who for us toiled, suffered, bled:And left, as we, their dead upon the field, Their comrades tried and true, around Scutari. Go to them, then, dear Queen, 'tis very fitting so!_Thy_ hand can clasp for _ours. Thy_ voice express _Our_ hearts. We send thee as our _best_, as so we ought;We send thee as our _dearest_, as thou art;We send thee our _elect_, perfect to fillThe office thou hast chosen for our sakes. A gentle woman thou, and therefore tender:--A loving wife, and therefore sympathetic:--A mother, thou, and therefore patient:--Is there a son among those wounded menHas made his mother sad? Thy tear will soften him. Is there a husband kept from wife and bairns?Thy smile will comfort him. Is there a lonely one with none to love?He'll warm beneath thy glance, his dear Queen's glance;And--soldiers all--they'll all forget their pains, And long to fight again, even to fall, for thee. And if for thee, for us; us, who would claspTheir thin worn hands in ours, and smile our thanks, And speak our praise of them, and heal their woundsWith gentlest care, each, for himself, if soWe might thus ease our o'er-full hearts. Yet happy are we still in this, nay, happier, --Thou being that _our best; our dearest;__Our elect; perfect epitome__Of all we would_--that thou dost go to them. 

_Great Western Hotel, Liverpool, June 9, 1880_. 

TO A CHILD

SINGING "JESUS LOVES ME, THIS I KNOW. "

Sing, little darling, sing, And may thy song be everlasting!Not all the learning wits and sages boastCan equal the sweet burden of thy song;--Can yield such rest amid life's noisiest strife;--Such peace to still the spirit's wildest wars;--Such hope to stem the most tumultuous waveMay threat to overwhelm. The love of Jesus, --Sweet, having this thou risest far aboveAll this world's clouds, and catchest glimpse of Heaven. 

 Did He who blestThat infant band that crowded round His knee, See, in a face like thine, a tender memoryOf that dear home He left for our sakes?It may be; nay, it must: "Of such, " He said, "My Father's kingdom. " And His great heartWent out in fondest tones: His soft embraceEncircling such as thou, thrilled out that loveThat vibrates yet, and still enfolds so warmHis tender lambs. Sing, little darling, sing, And may thy song be everlasting. 

HOME. 

The morning sun shone soft and bright, The air was pure and clear, My steady steps fell quick and light, Nor knew my soul a fear. For though the way was long and cold, The end I knew not where, Hope's vivid pictures made me bold To wait, or do, or dare. 

But ah, the change when evening gray Curtained a cloudy sky, And languid, I retraced the way My feet could scarce descry!By rugged care my heart was bruised, Hope's rainbow tints were gone;To this world's watch and ward unused, I could but stumble on. 

The rough wind's breath, the dark sky's frown Fell like the stroke of wrath, When--from above a star looked down-- A ray beamed on my path. The light of Home--oh, blessed light-- To weary wanderers dear!The light of Heaven, oh, glorious light To souls that stumble here!

What matters now the weary road, My toil shall soon be o'er;And, oh, at last, at home with God Life's cares shall cark no more. Be this my hope! Be this my aim! Though rough the road may be, Thy feet, blest Jesus, trod the same, And I would follow Thee. 

LOST WITH HIS BOAT. 

Alone--alone! I sit, and make my moan. The fire burns low, the candle flickers dim. Alone--alone! I rock, and think of him. Of him who left me in the purple prideOf early manhood. _Yestermorn_ he went. The sun shone bright, and scintillant the tide. O'er which the sea-mew swept, with dewy drops besprent. Before he went he kissed me; and I watchedHis boat that lay so still and stately, tillAutomaton she seemed, and that she movedTo where she willed of her own force and law. But I knew better: _his_ was the willThat set the pretty sprite a-going. His arms controlled her to obedience:Those arms that lately clasped me. No alarmsChilled my fond heart, nor dimmed my vision. As I saw the fair white messenger move offOn fleecy puffs of cloud into the blue;My nearest thought to trim my hearth, and make, A dainty dish would please my darling's tasteOn his return. And all day long, and throughThe dreamy summer day, my thoughts were fullOf many a gay return; my ears reheardThe cheery word and joke were wont to mark them. Nor when the sun went down in wrack and mist--A mist that gathers who knows how or where?--Feared I of aught. My little hearth burned bright. The kettle sang, and pussy purred and napped;And--rocking to and fro, as I do now, I hummed a little song; one _he_, had sungIn other days, and with the manly tonesHad stolen my heart away. The hearth burned low; I ate my meal alone, And something like a fear I chased away, Despite the deepening surges of the windThat scurried round our cot. I slept: and wakedWhat time the summer storm, that rose and fellIn sullen gusts, flew by; and slept again, And dreamed a glad return. When morning brokeA glorious day begun. The storm was gone:The sparkling waves toyed with the lilting breeze;The merry sun shone bright; and all the blueWas decked with tiny flecks of feathery white. A gladsome morn! But I, I missed my love. 

_And now they say he's dead_. Lost, with his boat, In that short summer storm of yesternight. Lost! _lost_! my love is lost! No more may IWelcome his step, hear his glad voice, and kissHis laughing lips. I may not even claspHis cold dead form in one long, last embrace!And here I sit alone. --I drove them all away, their words but maddened me. Alone I sit, And rock, and think, --I cannot weep--And conjure up the depths, those cruel depthsThat chafe and fret, and roll him to and froLike a stray log:--he, whose dear limbs should liePeaceful and soft, in rev'rent care bestowed. --Or in the sunken boat, gulfed at his work, I see his blackened corse, even in deathFaithful to duty. O that those waves, That with their gentle lullaby mock my wild woe, Would rise in all their might and 'whelm me too!Oh, love!--oh, love!--my love!

LIFE IN DEATH. 

On her pale bier the baby lay, And healthy children from their play, With tip-toe awe and bated breath, Came gently in to look on Death. 

One touched the flowers that decked the bier;Another dropped a little tear;One stroked the cheek so waxy white;And one cowered weeping with affright. 

But one fair boy won Life from DeathBy that quick faith that childhood hath;And cried, with gaze past present things, "P'raps baby's trying her new wings. "

INVOCATION TO RAIN. 

MAY, 1874. 

O blessed angel of the All-bounteous King, Where dost thou stay so long? Our sad hearts pine, Our spirits faint, for thee. Our weary eyesScan all the blue expanse, where not a cloudFloats low to rest our vision. In vain we turnOr East or West, no vap'rous haze, nor viewOf distant panorama, wins our soulsTo other worlds. All, all is hard and scant. Thy brother Spring is come. His favourite haunts the sheltering woods betray--The woods that, dark and cheerless yet, call thee. Tender hepaticas peep forth, and mottled leavesOf yellow dog's tooth vie with curly frondsOf feathery fern, in strewing o'er his path;The dielytra puts her necklace on, Of pearly pendants, topaz-tipped or rose. Gray buds are on the orchard trees, and grassGrows up in single blades and braves the sun. But thou!--O, where art thou, sweet early Rain, That with thy free libations fill'st our cup?The contemplative blue-bird pipes his noteFrom off the ridge cap, but can find no spotFit for his nest. The red-breast on the fenceExplores the pasture with his piercing eye, And visits oft the bushes by the stream, But takes no mate. For why? No leaves or tuftAre there to hide a home. Oh what is earthWithout a home? On the dry garden bed, The sparrow--the little immigrant bird--Hops quick, and looks askance, And pecks, and chirps, asking for kindly crumbs--Just two or three to feed his little mate:Then, on return from some small cunning nookWhere he has hidden her, he mounts the wires, Or garden fence, and sings a happy songOf home, and other days. A-missing theeThe husbandman goes forth with faltering stepAnd dull sad eye; his sweltering team pulls hardThe lab'ring plough, but the dry earth falls backAs dead, and gives nor fragrant fume, nor clogsThe plough-boy's feet with rich encumb'ring mould. The willows have a little tender green. And swallows cross the creek--the gurgling creekNow fallen to pools--but, disappointed, Dart away so swift, and fly so highWe scarce can follow them. Thus all the landDoth mourn for thee. Ah! here thou comest--sweet Rain. Soft, tender Rain! benison of the skies!See now, what transformation in thy touch!Straight all the land is green. The blossoming treesPut on their bridal wreaths, and veil their charmsFrom the too ardent sun, beneath thy giftOf soft diaphanous tissue, pure and whiteAs angel's raiment. Little wood childrenDeck all the path with flowers. The teeming earthOffers rich gifts. The little choristersSing ceaseless hymns, and the glad husbandmanAdds his diapason. Bright fountains wakeAnd mingle with the swift roulade of streams. The earth is full of music! Thou dost swingThy fragrant censer high, and dwellers inThe dusty city raise their toil-worn headsFrom desk and bench, and cry "Summer is here!"And straight they smell new hay and clover blooms;And see the trout swift-darting in the brooks:And hear the plover whistling in the fields. And little children dream of daisy chains;And pent-up youth thinks of a holiday;A holiday with romps, and cream, and flowers. O, Rain! O, soft, sweet Rain! O liberal Rain!Touch our hard hearts, that we may more becomeLike that Great Heart, whose almoner art thou. 

REMONSTRANCE WITH "REMONSTRANCE. "

(IN "CANADIAN MONTHLY, " APRIL, 1874. )

Why now, sweet Alice, though thy numbers ringLike silver bells, methinks their burden wrong. For if 'tis right, then were the hermits right, And all recluses. And He was wrongWho gave to Adam, Eve: and leaned uponThe breast of John the loved. So was He wrongTo love the gentle home at Bethany. The sisters, and their brother Lazarus. So was He wrong to weep at Lazarus' grave, Pity's hot tears for Sin, and Death, and Woe. And in that awful hour when manhood failedAnd God forsook, He still was wrong to thinkWith tenderest solicitude and careUpon his mother, and leave her in the chargeOf John. And He was wrong who gave us heartsTo yearn, and sensibilities to meetThose "clinging tendrils" thou wouldst have us cut. If thou art right, sweet Alice, There were no ties of infancy, or age;Of consanguinity: or noble bondOf wide humanity, or sacred home:For without love, --e'en our poor earthly love, --The world were dead. Love is the silver cord, that, being loosed, The fabric of humanity falls wideIn hopeless wrack. Well for us it isThat when our nature, hurt, falls, shrieking, down, The Great Physician's hand may raise it upAnd bind the wound. But what mad folly 'twereDid we, like peevish child, beat down the hand, And tear afresh the wound. And this we doWhen of our morbid selves we idols make, And cry "No sorrow like to mine. "O rather should we turn our tenderer hearts--Made gentler by our griefs--to gentle caresFor weak Humanity, and, knowing what woeOur sinful nature brings upon itself, With God-like pity love it but the more. 

THE ABSENT ONES. 

How I miss their faces! Faces that I love. Where I read the traces Heart and soul approve. Traces of their father Scattered here and there;Here a little gesture, There a twist of hair. Brave and generous Bertie, Sweet and quiet Fred, Tender-hearted Jackie, Various, but true-bred. 

How I miss their voices Raised in laughter gay;And in loving blessing When they go to pray. Even of their quarrels Miss I now the noise, Angry or disdainful, (What are they but boys?)Shouting in the garden, Spurring on the game, Calling a companion By some favourite name. 

How I miss the footsteps, Lightsome, loud, or slow;Telling by their echo How the humours go. Lagging when they're lazy. Running when they're wild. Leaping when they're gladsome, Walking when they're mild. Footsteps, voices, faces, Where are ye to-night?Father, keep my darlings Ever in Thy sight. 

AWAY. 

Oh, where are all the madcaps gone?Why is the house so drear and lone?No merry whistle wakes the day, Nor evening rings with jocund play. No clanging bell, with hasty din, Precedes the shout, "Is Bertie in?"Or "Where is Fred?" "Can I see Jack?""How soon will he be coming back?Or "Georgie asks may I go out, "He has a treasure just found out. "The wood lies out in all the rain, No willing arms to load are fainThe weeds grow thick among the flowers, And make the best of sunny hours;The drums are silent; fifes are mute;No tones are raised in high dispute;No hearty laughter's cheerful soundAnnounces fun and frolic round. Here's comic Alan's wit wants sport;And dark-eyed Bessie's quick retortIs spent on Nellie, mild and sweet;And dulness reigns along the street. The table's lessened numbers bringNo warm discussion's changeful ring, Of hard-won goal, or slashing play, Or colours blue, or brown, or gray. The chairs stand round like rows of pins;No hoops entrap unwary shins;No marbles--boyhood's gems--roll loose;And stilts may rust for want of use;No book-bags lie upon the stairs;Nor nails inflict three-cornered tears. Mamma may lay her needle down, And take her time to go up town;Albeit, returning she may missThe greeting smile and meeting kiss. 

But hark! what message cleaves the air. From skies where roams the Greater Bear!"Safe, well, and happy, here are we, Wild as young colts and just as free!With plenteous hand and kindly heart, Our hosts fulfil a liberal part. Nor lack we food to suit the mind, Our alma-mater here we find, And in her agricultural schoolWe learn to farm by modern rule;Professor Walter fills the chair, But teaches in the open air. And by his side we tend the stock, Or swing the scythe, or bind the shock. Nor miss we academic lore, We walk where Plato walked before, And eloquent Demosthenes, Who taught their youth beneath the trees;Here with sharp eyes we love to scanThe rules that point Dame Nature's plan, We mark the track of bear and deer, And long to see them reft of fear. --Though well they shun our changeful moods, Taught by our rifle in the woods. Yet we may tell of mercy shown, Power unabused, the birdling flown, --When caught by thistly gossamer--Set free to wing the ambient air. Cautious we watch the gliding snake, 'Neath sheltering stone, or tangled brake, And list the chipmunk's merry trillProclaim his wondrous climbing skill. The bird; the beast; the insect; allIn turn our various tastes enthrall;The fish; the rock; the tree; the flower;Yield to quick observation's power. And many a treasure swells our storeOf joys for days when youth is o'er. Our glowing limbs we love to laveBeneath the lake's translucent wave, Or on its heaving bosom rideIn merry boat; or skilful guideThe light canoe, with balanced oar, To yonder islet's pebbly shore. Sometimes, with rod and line, we tryThe bass's appetite for fly;Well pleased if plunge or sudden dartTry all our piscatorial art;And shout with joy to see our catchProve bigger than we thought our match. Oft when the ardent sun at noonProclaims his power, we hide full soonWithin the cool of shady grove, Or, gathering berries slowly roveAnd often when the sun goes down, We muse of home, and you in town;And had we but a carrier doveWe'd send her home with loads of love. "

POOR JOE. 

He cannot dance, you say, nor sing, Nor troll a lilting stave;And when the rest are cracking jokes He's silent as the grave. 

Poor Joe! I know he cannot sing-- His voice is somewhat harsh:But he can whistle loud and clear As plover in the marsh. 

Nor does he dance, but he would walk Long miles to serve a friend, And though he cares not crack a joke, He will the truth defend. 

And so, though he for company May not be much inclined, I love poor Joe, and think his home Will be just to my mind. 

FRAGMENTS. 

 * * * * *

"I WISH YOU A HAPPY NEW YEAR. "

A happy year, sweet as the breath of flowers: A merry year, glad as the song of birds, A jocund year, gay as brown harvest hours; A prosperous year, rich, as in flocks and herds. 

 * * * * *

THE LIFE-BOAT MAN. 

When the loud minute gun alarms the night, And plunging waters hide the bark from sight, When lurid lightnings threat, and thunders roll. And roaring tempests daunt the trembling soul--'Tis thine, O Life-boat Man, such fears to brave, And snatch the drowning from a watery grave. 

 * * * * *

"I am learning the stitch, " the lover saidAs over her work he bent his head. But the scene spake plain to the mother's eye"I am watching these busy fingers ply. "And ever anon when a stitch she'd miss, 'Twas because he bent lower her hand to kiss. Oh tender lover, and busy maid, May the sweet enchantment never fade;Nor the thread of life, though a stitch may miss, Know a break that may not be joined by a kiss. 

 * * * * *

THE SWEET GIRL GRADUATE. 

A COMEDY IN FOUR ACTS. 

ACT I. 

SCENE 1. --_Scugog_. 

_The breakfast-room in the house of_ BLOGGS, _a wealthy Scugogmerchant. At the table_, KATE, _his daughter, reading a letter_. 

 _Kate (in much indignation)_. Refused! I knew it!The crass ingratitude of haughty man, Vested in all the pride of place and power, Brooks not the aspirations of my sex, However just. Is't that he fears to yield, Lest from his laurelled brow the wreath should fallAnd light on ours? We may matriculate, And graduate--if we can, but he excludesUs from the beaten path he takes himself. The sun-lit heights of steep ParnassusReach past the clouds, and we below must stay;Not that our alpen-stocks are weak, or thatOur breath comes short, but that, forsooth, we wearThe Petticoat. Out on such trash!

_Enter_ MR. BLOGGS. 

 _Mr. Bloggs_. Why, what's the matter, Kate?

 _Kate_. Not much, papa, only I am refusedAdmission to the college. _Sapient_ saysThe Council have considered my request, And find it inconsistent with the rulesOf discipline and order to admitWomen within their walls. 

 _Mr. B_. I thought they'd say so. Now be satisfied;You've studied hard. Have made your mark uponThe honour list. Have passed your second year. Let that suffice. You know enough to wed, And Gilmour there would give his very headTo have you. Get married, Kate. 

 _Kate_. Papa, you vex me; Gilmour has no chanceAnd that I'll let him know. Nor have I spentMy youth in studious sort to give up now. 

 _Mr. Bloggs_. What will you do? They will not let you in, For fear you'd turn the heads of all the boys. And quite right, too. I wouldn't have the careAnd worry of a lot of lively girlsFor all I'm worth. 

 [_He kisses her_. 

 _Kate_. P'raps not, papa. But yet I mean to haveThe prize I emulate. If I obtainThe honours hung so tantalizinglyBefore us by the University, Will you defray the cost, as hithertoYou've done, like my own kind papa?

 [_She kisses him_. 

 _Mr. Bloggs_. I guess I'll have to: they won't send the bills to you. 

 _Kate_. Ah, dear papa! I'll make you proud of meAs if I were a son. 

_Enter_ MRS. BLOGGS. _Exit_ MR. BLOGGS. 

 _Mrs. Bloggs_. My dearest Kate, How very late You keep the breakfast things!

 _Kate_. My dear mamma, I had papa To tell of lots of things. 

 _Mrs. Bloggs_. Your secret, pray, If so I may Be let into it also. 

 _Kate_. Oh, it was just this letter, mamma, from Mr. Sapient, telling me that the Council won't let me go to University College toshare the education that can only be had there at a reasonable cost, because the young men would be demoralized by my presence. 

 _Mrs. Bloggs_. Kate, I am astonished at you! Have I not alwayssaid that women do not need so much education as men, and ought to keepthemselves _to_ themselves, and not put themselves forward likeimpudent minxes? What'll men think of you if you go sittin' down on thesame benches at the colleges, and studyin' off of the same desk, and, like enough--for there are girls bold enough for that--out of the samebooks? And what must the professors think women are comin' to when theywant to learn mathyphysics and metamatics and classical history, andsuch stuff as unfits a woman for her place, and makes her as ignorant ofhousehold work, managin' servants, bringin' up children, and such like, as the greenhorns that some people take from the emigrant sheds, thoughI wouldn't be bothered with such ignoramuses, spoilin' the knives, andburnin' the bread, for anythin'?

 _Kate_. Now, mamma, you know we have gone all over this before, and shall never agree, because I think that the better educated a womanis, the better she can fulfil her home duties, especially in the careand management of the health of her family, and the proper training ofher sons and daughters as good citizens. 

 _Mrs. Bloggs_. You put me out of all patience, Kate! Forgoodness' sake get married and be done with it. And that remindsme that Harry Gilmour wants you to go to the picnic with him onDominion Day, and to the concert at the Gardens at night; and hesaid you had snubbed him so at Mrs. Gale's that he didn't like tospeak about it to you without I thought he might. Now, that's whatI call a real shame, the way you do treat that young man. A risin'young lawyer as he is, with no end of lots in Winnipeg, and all themoney his father made for him up there; comes of a good old family, and has the best connections; as may be a member yet, perhaps senatorsome day, and you treat him as if he was quite beneath you. I do hopeyou'll just show a little common sense and accept his invitations. 

 _Kate_. Well, mamma, I think the real shame, as you call it, isthat you, and other ladies, will allow your daughters to go, about topicnics, parties, balls, theatres or anywhere else, with any man whohappens to ask them, and without even so much as a girl-companion, andyet you see nothing but impropriety in my desire to attend college, where all the opportunity of associating with the other sex is limitedto a few lectures delivered by grave and reverend Professors, underconditions of strict discipline, and at which the whole attention ofthe students must necessarily be concentrated on the subject. As forunlimited opportunities for flirting, there are none; and thenecessities of college life compel each student to attend to his dutieswhile within the halls, and then go home; wherever that may be. 

 _Mrs. Bloggs_. It's no use talking, Kate, you won't alter myopinion. If they'd build another college specially for ladies, as Ihear the Council is willin' to do, and put it under charge of a ladywho would look after the girls, I wouldn't object so much, though, asI always say, I don't see the need of so much learnin' for women. 

 _Kate_. Well, mamma, how much would be gained by a separatebuilding? The Council, it is true, offer a piece of ground, within afew minutes walk of the college, for a ladies' college, and promiseto deliver lectures specially "altered to suit the female capacity. "But if there was an intention of giddiness and flirtation on the partof the lady students, how much hindrance do you think the separatecollege would be? And if we can't understand the same lectures as ourbrothers, it is evident we can't understand the same books. Rather ahard nut to crack, isn't it?

 _Mrs. Bloggs_. How rude you are, Kate! I am ashamed of you. 

 [_Exit_ MRS. BLOGGS _in a rage_. 

 _Kate_. Poor mamma, she thinks her only child a very _enfant terrible_. 

 * * * * *

SCENE 2. --_A lady's bedroom_. 

KATE BLOGGS _and her cousin_, ORPHEA BLAGGS, _in conversation_. 

 _Orphea_. What will you do, dear?

 _Kate_. A deed without a name!A deed will waken me at dead of night!A deed whose stony face will stare at meWith vile grimace, and freeze my curdling blood!Will make me quake before the eye of day;Shrink from the sun; and welcome fearsome night!A deed will chase my trembling steps by waysUnknown, through lonely streets, into dark haunts!--Will make me tremble if a child observesMe close; and quake, if, in a public crowd, One glances at me twice!A deed I'll blush for, yet I'll do't; and chargeIts ugliness on those who forced me to't--In short, I'll wear the breeks. 

 _Orphea_. Oh, Katie! You?

 _Kate_. Yes, me, dear coz. 

 _Orphea_. But then your hair, and voice!

 _Kate_. I'll train my voice to mouth out short, thick words, As Bosh! Trash! Fudge! Rot! And I'll cultivateAn Abernethian, self-assertive style, That men may think there is a deal more inMy solid head than e'er comes out. My hair I'll cut short off. 

 [_She looses down her abundant brown hair, and passes her hands through it caressingly_. 

Ah, woman's simple pride! these tresses brownMust all be shorn. Like to Godiva fair, Whose heart, so true, forgot itself, to serveHer suffering kind; I, too, must makeMy hair an offering to my sex; a protest strong'Gainst man's oppression. Oh, wavy locks, that won my father's praise, I must be satisfied to cut ye off, And keep ye in a drawer 'till happier times, When I again may wear ye as a crown:Perchance a bang. 

 _Orphea_. 'Twould, perhaps, be best to wear some as moustache. 

 _Kate_. The very thing! then whiskers won't be missed. 

 _Orphea_. But oh, your mannish garb! How dreadful, Kate!

 _Kate_. True; but it must be done, and you must help. 

 [_Exeunt_. 

 * * * * *

SCENE 3. --_The same room. Evening_. 

KATE _alone_. 

 _Kate_. Not let me in! We'll see. I'll beat 'em yet. To think that down in Canterbury, girls, Like my poor self, have had the badge bestowedThat I so fondly covet. To think that theyEnjoy the rights I ask, and have receivedThe Cambridge University degree, B. A. Not only wear the gown and capAs college students, but the hood. The hood!And shall Macaulay's proud New ZealanderThus sit on me? Not if I know it. No!I'll don the dreadful clothes, and cheat the Dons. 

 [_She goes to the window_. 

The blinds are down, the shutters closed, the slatsAs well, surely no one can see. 

 [_She takes up a man's coat and looks at it, then the vest, then the pants_. 

 I'll do't!

 [_Invests herself in the masculine apparel. A knock at the door. She starts and turns pale_. 

 _A Voice_. Katie, dear!

 _Kate_. Pshaw! 'tis only Orphea!

 [_She unlocks the door_. 

(_In masculine tones_. ) Come in, dear coz. 

 [_Attempts to kiss her, but receives a slap in the face_. 

 _Orphea_. How dare you, sir! Oh! let me out. 

 _Kate (in natural voice)_. Orphea, you goose!

 _Orphea_ Oh, Kate, you did so scare me!

 _Kate_. And is it then a good disguise?

 _Orphea_. 'Tis poor old Tom again. 

 _Kate_. But how essay it in the street and hall?

 _Orphea_. Well, there's the gown to help. 'Twill cover all. 

 _Kate_. And then the cap? But that I do not mind;My Derby hat has used me to a styleA trifle jaunty, and a hard stiff crown;So if my hair prove not too tryingI yet may like to wear the "mortar-board, "If still they wear such things. 

 _Orphea_. Oh, Kate, it is an awful risk!

 _Kate_. Awful, my dear; but poor mammaThinks I'm an awful girl. If she but knew--Yet might I plead that men and women oftHave done the same before; poor Joan of Arc;Portia; and Rosalind. And I have heardThat once Achilles donned the woman's garb:Then why not I the student's cap and gown?

ACT II. 

SCENE 1--_A bedroom in a Toronto boarding-house_. KATE BLOGGS _in bed_. 

_Enter boarding-house mistress_. 

 _Kate_. Yes, nursey, I'll be quick, but mind your wordsAnd looks, and do not make mistakes. 

 _Nurse_. Oh no, Miss Kate--or Mr. Christopher, As that's the name you've chose, I'll not mistake. 

 _Kate_. And always mind and keep my room, My time and liberty, intact, and soYou'll make it easier for me to obtainBy surreptitious means, the rights I shouldEnjoy in happier sort. 

 _Nurse_. I'll do my best, Miss Kate. 

 [_Exit_ Nurse. 

 _Kate (in masculine attire, about to descend to the breakfasttable, turns once more to the mirror)_. Oh, Harberton, Hadst thou but taught the worldThe beauty of thy new divided skirtEre I was born, this had not now been thus. This blush, that burns my cheek, had long been past;These trembling limbs, that blench so from the light, Had gotten strength to bear me manfully. Oh for the mantling night, when city fatherssave the gas, and Luna draws her veil!

 [_She sits down on a box_. 

Away, weak tears!I must be brave and show myself a man, Nay, more, a student, rollicking and gay. Would I could feel so! (_Sniffs at the air_. ) Somebody smokes, And before breakfast; pah, the nasty things!Would I could smoke! They say some women do;Drink toddy, too; and I do neither:That's not like a man; I'll have to learn. But no! my soul revolts; I'll risk it. Surely there are among a studious bandSome who love temperance and godly life. That's the crowd I'll join. They will not plunge intoThose dreadful orgies that the _Globe_ describes, Of men half-tight with lager and old rye, Who waylay freshmen and immerse them inThe flowing wave of Taddle, _Horrors! Why, I shall be a freshman!_If they touch me I'll scream! ah--ha, I'll scream!Scream, and betray my sex? No, that won't do;At Rome I'll have to be a Roman;And, to escape that dread ordeal, IShall cringe and crawl, and in the presence ofA fourth year man step soft and bow, And smile if he but condescend to nod. Oh, yes, I'll do't. In tableaux once I playedUriah Heep, and made the characterSo "'umble" and so crawly, that for daysI loathed my hands, and slapped my fingers wellFor having knuckles. Thus will I to the tyrant play the slave. An old antithesis. 

 [_Some one calls at the door_. 

 Yes, yes, I'm coming, Hannah. Now for that dreaded step yclept the first, Pray Heaven it may cost most; but that I doubt. 

 [_Descends to the breakfast table_. 

ACT III. 

SCENE 1. --_The same as Scene 2, Act I_. 

MISS ORPHEA BLAGGS _solus, reading a letter_. 

 _Orphea (reading)_--

"My Dearest Orphea--Congratulate me! me, your cousin, Tom Christopher, M. A. , Gold Medallist. --Mathematics, and also Natural Sciences; Honoursin Classics, and Prizeman in German again. You cannot think how queer Ifeel with all my blushing honours thick upon me, and more to come. Tuesday! my dear Orphea, Tuesday! Only think of it, Master of Arts, ormore correctly Mistress of Arts! Now let the New Zealanders boast, andthe Cambridge girls bite their tongues, Canada has caught them up! Ah, my dear Orphea, that is the drop of gall in the cup of your successfulcousin--the Canterbury Antipodeans got their honours _first_. Itreminds me of the saying that the nearer to church the farther fromheaven, since it is evidently the nearer to the centre of civilizationthe farther from a University Degree, so far as we unfortunate women areconcerned. But never mind! I've proved that Canadian girls are equal inmental power with Canadian boys, and I am only impatient to let the Donsknow it. 

"And now, my love, for the conclusion of the two years' farce. It hascost me a whole week's sleep to sketch a plan by which to declare my sexin the most becoming manner to my fellow students. 

"Do you know, dear, when I look back upon the pleasures of the past twoyears--how soon we forget the pain!--I am not inclined to regret thestep rendered necessary by my devotion to my sex, for use has made mequite at home in the--ah--divided skirt! How many lovely girls have Idanced with through the rosy hours who will never more smile on me asthey were wont to smile! How many flowers of rhetoric have been wastedon me by the irony of fate! How many _billets-doux_, so perfumedand pretty, lie in my desk addressed to my nether garment! And how manymammas have encouraged Mr. Christopher, who will forever taboo MissBloggs! And then the parties and the picnics! Ah, my dear Orphea, whatdo I not sacrifice on the altar of my sex. But a truce to regrets. 

"I am longing to see the elegant costume in which I shall appear beforethe astonished eyes of the multitude as Miss Bloggs, M. A. 

"You know my style, the latest out, which I find by the fashion books isMignonette trimmed with Chinese Pheasant. Buttons up the back of thesleeves, with rubies and amethysts. Let the fichu be Eidelweiss; trimthe fan and slippers with the same, and use dandelions and calla liliesfor the bouquets. Not a button less than forty on the gloves, and don'tforget my hair. 

"Get yourself up to match by contrast, and come and help me make asensation. 

"The dinner is on the _tapis_. Webb will be caterer, Sells willsupply the cider; Shapter and Jeffery the Zoedone, and I have enteredinto a contract with the Toronto Water Works for pure water on thisoccasion only. I have bought up every flower in Toronto, so that if thetariff does not prevent it, other folks will have to import their ownroses; and I have engaged every boy in the public schools who hasnothing better to do next Saturday to go to Lome Park and bring back asmany maiden-hairs as he can find. Ferns are my craze, as you know, and Iam quite a crank on maiden-hair, which I mean to adopt for my crest with"If she will, she will, " as a motto. Ever your own, "KATE. "

A merry letter truly. I'll to the dressmaker. 

ACT IV. 

SCENE 1. --_A boarding-house dining-room richly decorated with flowersand plants. Twenty gentlemen, among whom is_ Mr. Tom Christopher, _eachaccompanying a lady, one of whom is_ Miss Blaggs. _The cloth is drawn, and dessert is on the table_. 

 _Mr. Biggs, B. A. (Tor. Univer. ), on his feet_. 

 Ah--ladies and gentlemen, here's to our host, And rising, as thus, to propose him a toast, I think of the days which together In shade, and in sunshine, as chums we have passed, In love, and esteem, that forever must last, Let happen what will to the weather. 

In short, ladies and gentlemen, I have to propose the everlasting healthand welfare of our host, who should have been our honoured guest but forthat persistent pertinacity he exhibited in the matter, and which hedoes himself the injustice to call womanish. But I am sure, ladies andgentlemen, no one but himself ever accused our esteemed host of beingwomanish, and when we look upon the high standing he has achieved in ourUniversity, the honour he confers on his Alma Mater by his scholarlyattainments and the gentlemanly character he has won among all sorts ofstudents, I am sure, ladies and gentlemen, we should be doing greatinjustice to you all were we for one moment to admit that he could beother than he is, an honour to Toronto University, and a credit to hissex. I am quite sure the ladies are at this moment envying the happywoman whom he will at no distant date probably distinguish with hisregard, and it must be satisfactory to ourselves, gentlemen, to knowthat it lies in our power, as the incumbents of academic honours, to beable to bestow that reversion of them on those who, having all the worldat their feet, need not sigh for the fugitive conquests that demandunceasing toil and an unlimited amount of gas or coal-oil. Ladies andgentlemen, I call upon you to fill your sparkling glasses to the honourof our host and college chum, Mr. Tom Christopher. And here's with ahip, hip, hooray! and hands all round!

 _All_. --Hip, hip! Hurrah!

 [_Tremendous cheering and clinking of glasses. Several are broken, and the excitement consequently subsides_. 

 _Mr. Tom Christopher_. --Ladies and gentlemen, I thank you much. For these your loving words. A third year man, I came upon you fresh from nowhere;This in itself a warranty for coldAnd hard suspicion; but you receivedMe with some warmth, and made me one of you, Chaffed me, and sat on me, and lent me books. And offered pipes, and made inquiries kindAbout my sisters; and Time, who takesMen kindly by the hand, made us warm friends, And knit us in a love all brotherly. 

 _Many Voices_. --Yes, brothers! brothers! we are brothers all!

 _A Voice_. --And sisters!

 _Mr. Tom_. --I would say sisters too, but that I fearMy lady guests would think I did presume;But yet I know, and knowing it am proud, That most men here to-night would welcome allThe sweet girl-graduates that would fill the listDid but the College Council set asideA foolish prejudice, and let them in. And now, I know a girl who long has workedTo pass the exams, take the proud degreeI hold to-day, and yet her petticoatForbade. 

 _Several Voices_. --Name! Name! A toast! A toast!

 _Mr. Tom_. --I will not name her, gentlemen, but bringHer to your presence, if you so incline;First begging that you will not let surpriseOust self-possession, for my friend's a girlOf timid temper, though she's bold to actIf duty calls. 

 _Many Voices_. --Your friend! Your friend!

 _Mr. Tom_. --I go to fetch her, gentlemen; dear ladies all, I beg your suffrages of gentle eyesAnd kindly smile to greet my guest. 

 [_Exit_ MR. TOM CHRISTOPHER. 

 * * * * *

SCENE 2. --_The same_. 

_Enter_ MISS KATE BLOGGS _in full dinner toilet of Reseda silk, and carrying a dandelion and lily bouquet_. 

 _Miss Blaggs_. --My cousin! oh, my cousin!

 [_Rushes excitedly forward and falls into hysterics on_ Miss BLOGGS' _neck. The company gather round in great surprise_. 

 _Miss B_. --Dear Orphea! Orphea, my dear! oh, water, gentlemen!Lay her upon the couch. See! see! she gasps!Orphea, dear girl!

 [_The ladies are much alarmed, but Miss BLAGGS soon gives signs of recovery, and sits up_. 

 _Orphea (in tears)_. --Oh, Kate! it struck me so to see you onceagain as you were wont to be; those nasty ugly pantsforever gone, and you a girl again. 

 _Kate_. --Dear friends, you look surprised. Pray Heaven you'll not look worse when you know all. I am indeed a girl, though you have knownMe hitherto as Thomas Christopher. Four years ago I passed the exams, forUs women, at your University. Once more I passed. But when again I would, I stumbled for the teaching that is chained--Like ancient scripture to the reading desk--Within your College walls. No word of mineCould move the flinty heads of College Council. Order and discipline forbade, they said, That women should sit-side by side with menWithin their walls. At church, or concert, orAt theatre, or ball, no separation's madeOf sexes. And so I, being a girlOf firm and independent mind, resolvedTo do as many a one beside has doneFor lesser prize, and, as a man, sat atThe feet of our Gamaliels until I gotThe learning that I love. That I may nowLook you all in the face without a blush, save--thatWhich naturally comes at having thusTo avow my hardihood, is praise, I trow, You will not think unworthy; and to meIt forms a soft remembrance that will ever dwellWithin my grateful heart. Can you forgive me?

 _Many Voices_. --We do, we must. All honour to the brave!Speak for us, Biggs. 

 _Mr. Biggs_. --I cannot speak, except to ask the lady's pardonFor our rough ways. 

 _Kate_. --No; pardon me. 

 _Many Voices_. --No! no! we ask your pardon. 

 _Kate_. --If that, indeed, as I must need believeFrom all your looks, you do not blame me much, Endue me with a favour. It is this:--Let every man and woman here to-nightLook out for those petitions that will soonBe placed in many a store by those our friendsWho in this city form a ladies' club, And each one sign. Nay more, to show you meanWhat I, with swelling heart have often heardYou strongly urge, the rights of women toThe College privileges, get all your friendsTo sign. Do what your judgment charges youTo help so good a cause, and let the listsOf 1883 have no more namesSet by themselves as women. Let us goIn numbrous strength before the Parliament, And ask our rights in such a stirring sort, They shall be yielded. Then I shall knowYour brotherly and pleasant words mean faith, And shall no more regret a daring actThat else will fail of reason. May I thus trust?

 _All_. --You may! You may. 

 _Kate_. --Then hands all round, my friends, till break of day. 

 * * * * *

FABLES:

ORIGINAL AND FROM THE FRENCH. 

THE CHOICE. 

As fragrant essences from summer flowers, Steal, on aerial pinions, to the sense, So, on the viewless wing of rumour, spedA word that set the aviary on flame. "To-morrow comes the Prince, " it said, "to chooseA bird of gifts will grace the royal bower. "O then began a fluttering and a fume--A judging each of all! Pert airs and speechFlew thick as moulted feathers. Little headsWere tossed in lofty pride, or in disdainWere turned aside. For each bird deemed his ownThe merits that would charm. One only sangTo-day his daily song, nor joined the crowdIn envious exultation. To him spokeAnother of his kind. "Vain one, refrainThat everlasting pipe, fit for a cageBehind some cotter's lattice, where thy grayAnd thickset form may shun the cultured eye. A word of warning, too--hide from the Prince. ""Dear brother, " cried the gray, "be not annoyed;Who sees your elegance of form, and depthOf perfect colour, ne'er will notice me. "The morrow came, --the Prince. Each bird essayedTo please the royal taste, and many a meedOf praise was won and given--this for his hue;--That for his elegance;--another forHis fascinating grace. Yet something lacked, 'Twas evident, and many an anxious glanceBetrayed the latent fear. "Yon little birdIn quiet gray and green courts not my praise, Yet should a singer be, " exclaimed the Prince, As with a critical and searching eyeHe scanned the small competitors for choice. Obedient to his governor, the birdPoured forth his song, oblivious of the crowdOf vain and envious round him, in whose eyesHe stood contemptible. The Prince, entranced, Broke forth at length: "Nor hue, nor elegance, Nor fascination, can outvie the giftOf genius. My choice is made. " And to the great offenceOf one bright bird, at least, the humble grayBecame the royal treasure. 

INSINCERITY. 

Tired of the narrow limits her assigned, Truth fled the earth; and men were fain to gropeIn utter darkness. Blindly they blundered, And were long distraught, till on the horizon roseA luminosity, and in its midstA form. They cried, "'Tis Truth! fair Truth returned!'And though the light seemed dim, the form but faintTo that of other days, they worshipped it, And all things went along much as at first. Until, born none knew whence, a doubt arose;Grew strong; and spake; and pondering, men beganTo quest their goddess' claim. Then, too, was setA secret watch, a covert test for proof;And one fine day there rose a clamour, suchAs cheated mobs will make, when cunning putsA veto on their claim. For this mob found that, in her stolen guiseOf softer beams, they had adored a cheat;A make-believe; a lie. Immense their rage! One aim inspired them all--To punish. But while they swayed and tossedIn wrathful argument on just desert, Fair Truth indeed appeared, clad in her robesOf glorious majesty. "Desist, my friends, "She cried; "the executioner condignOf Insincerity, and your avenger, Is Time, my faithful henchman. "

THE TWO TREES. 

FROM THE FRENCH OF P. LE MAY. 

Two trees, amid whose leafy shadeThe warbling birds their vigils paid, Stood neighbours--each as noble treeIn height and girth as one might see. The one, sequestered in the vale, All sheltered from the boisterous gale, Had passed his days in soft repose;The other from the cliff arose, And bore the brunt of stormy windThat lashed him oft in frenzy blind. 

A day there happed when from the northAquilon drave his forces forth, And hurled them headlong on the rockWhere, proudly poised to meet the shock, Our bold tree stood. In gallant might, He took the gage of proffered fight, And though in every fibre wrung, Kept every fibre still upstrung. 

"Thou tremblest!" cried the sheltered tree, "Thine own the folly! Come to me. Here no wild tempest rocks our boughs--Scarce may it bend our haughty brows--Scarce may a breeze our branches kiss--From every harm a shelter this. "

No word replied the storm-tried tree, But, wrestling for the mastery, He bowed and straightened, writhed and shook, And firmer of the rock he tookA tightening clutch with grip of steel, Nor once the storm-fiend made him reel;And when his weary foe passed by, Still towered he proudly to the sky. 

Then through the vale the winged blastFor the first time in fury passed, As through ripe grain the sickles go, Widespread he scattered fear and woe;Prone fell the tree--so safe before--'Mid ruin dire, to rise no more. 

He cannot fall who knows to fightWith stern adversity aright. But soon is laid the victim low, That knows not how to ward a blow. 

FABLE AND TRUTH. 

Simply attired in Nature's strictest garb, Fair Truth emerged from out her sheltering well;But Time so many of her charms had touchedThat age and youth before her presence fled:And no asylum showed an open doorOf welcome to the waif of shivering limb. Sudden upon her sight a vision breaks--Gay Fable richly robed, and pranked withalIn plumes and jewels--mostly false 'tis true, But bright enough. "Ah, is it you, my friend?How do?" quo' she, "but why upon the road. "And all alone?" "You see I freeze, " says Truth, "And yet of those who pass I but imploreA simple shelter, but I frighten them. Alas! I see an aged woman gainsBut small consideration!" "Younger than I, "Saith Fable, "are you? Yet I may aver, Without conceit, that everywhereI am received with joy. But Mistress Truth, Why did you brave the light in such scant robe?'Twas most ill-judged. Come, let's arrange for both, Since the same end is aim for me as you;Get 'neath my cloak, and we'll together walk. Thus, for your sake, I shall not by the wiseBe buffeted; and for my sake, you shallBe well received among the simpler sort. Thus every one his proper taste may suit, And by these means each shall her end attain, Thanks to your sense, and my amusing speech. And you will see, my sister, everywhereWe shall be well received, in company. "--_Florian_. 

THE CALIPH. 

In ancient days the Caliph AlmamonA palace built in Bagdad, fairer farThan was the vaunted house of Solomon. The portico a hundred columns gracedOf purest alabaster. Gold and blueAnd jasper formed the rich mosaic floor. Ceiled with the fragrant cedar, suites of roomsDisplayed a wealth of sculpture; treasures rareIn art and nature vied; fair flowers and gems, Perfumes and scented myrtles; verdure softAnd piercing lustre; past the embroidered couchThe gushing fountains rolled on dancing wave. And beauty reigned o'er all. Near this abode, but just beyond the gate, A simple cottage stood, old and dilapidate, The home of a poor weaver. There, contentWith little gain procured by labour long, Without a debt and thus beyond a care, The old man lived, forgotten perhaps, but free. His days all peaceful softly wore awayAnd he nor envied was, nor envying. As hath been told, his small and mean retreat, Just masked the palace gates. The Grand VizierWould pull it down, without formalityOf law, or word of grace. More just his lordCommands to buy it first. To hear is to obey;They seek the weaver's bearing bags of gold;"These shalt thou have. " "No; keep your lordly sum, My workshop yields my needs, " responds the man, "And for my house, I have no wish to sell;Here was I born, and here my father died:And here would I die too. The Caliph may, Should he so will, force me to leave the placeAnd pull my cottage down, but should he soEach day would find me seated on the stoneThe last that's left, weeping my misery. I know Almamon's heart; 'twill pity me. "This bold reply the Vizier's choler raised;He would the rascal punish, and at oncePull down the sorry hut. Not so the Caliph:"No; while it stands my glory lives, " saith he, "My treasure shall be taxed to make it whole;And of my reign it shall be monument;For when my heirs shall this fair palace markThey shall exclaim 'How great was Almamon!'And when yon cottage 'Almamon was just!'"--_Florian_. 

THE BLIND MAN AND THE PARALYTIC. 

Kindly let us help each other, Lighter will our burden lie, For the good we do our brother Is a solace pure and high, --So Confucius to his people, To his friends, the wise Chinese, Oft affirmed, and to persuade them, Told them stories such as these:--

In an Asiatic city Dwelt two miserable men, --Misery knows nor clime nor country, Haunts alike the dome or den--Blind the one, the other palsied, Each so poor he prayed for death;Yet he lived, his invocations Seeming naught but wasted breath. On his wretched mattress lying, In the busy public square, See the wasted paralytic Suffering more that none doth care. 

Butt for everybody's humour, Gropes the blind his devious way, Guide, nor staff, nor helper has he, To supply the light's lost ray;E'en a poor dog's willing service, Love, and guidance are denied;Till one day his groping finds him By the paralytic's side. There he hears the sufferer's moaning, And his very soul is moved. He's the truest sympathizer Who, like sorrow, erst has proved. 

"I have, sorrows, thou hast others, Brother, let us join our woes, And their rigours will be softened, " Thus the blind began propose. "Ah, my friend, thou little knowest That a step I cannot take;Thou art blind; what should we gain then Of two burdens one to make?""Why, now, brother, see how lucky, 'Twixt us both is all we lack:Thou hast eyes, be thou the guide then, Thee I'll carry on my back;Thus without unfriendly question As to which bears heaviest load, I will walk for thee, and thou, friend, Choose for me the smoothest road. "--_Florian_. 

DEATH. 

On a set day, fell Death, queen of the world, --In hell assembled all her fearful courtThat 'mongst them she might choose a ministerWould render her estate more flourishing. As candidates for the dread office came, With measured strides, from Tartarus' lowest depth, Fever, and Gout, and War--a trioTo whose gifts all earth and hell bare witness--The queen reception gave them. Then came Plague, And none his claims and merit might deny. Still, when a doctor paid his visit, too, Opinion wavered which would win the day. Nor could Queen Death herself at once decide. But when the Vices came her choice fell quick--She chose Excess. --_Florian_. 

THE HOUSE OF CARDS. 

How softly glide Philemon's happy daysWithin the cot where once his father dweltPeaceful as he!Here with his gentle wife and sturdy boys, In rural quietude, he tills his farm;Gathers his harvest, or his garden tends. Here sweet domestic joys together sharedCrown every evening, whether 'neath the treesThe smiling summer draws the table forth:Or round the cosy hearth the winter coldWith crackling faggot blazing makes their cheer. Here do the careful parents ever giveCounsels of virtuous knowledge to their sons. The father with a story points his speech, The mother with a kiss. Of different tastes, the boys: the elder one, Grave, studious, reads and thinks the livelong day;The younger, sprightly, gay, and graceful, too, Leaps, laughs incessant, and in games delights. One evening, as their wont, at father's side, And near a table where their mother sewed, The elder Rollin read. The younger played:Small care had he for Rome's ambitious deeds, Or Parthian prowess; his whole mind was setTo build a house of cards, his wit sharp-drawnTo fit the corners neatly. He, nor speaks, Nor scarce may breathe, so great his anxious care. But suddenly the reader's voice is heardSelf-interrupting: "Papa, pray tell me whySome warriors are called Conquerors, and someThe Founders, of an Empire? What doth makeThe points of difference in the simple terms?"In careful thought the father sought reply:When, radiant with delight, his younger son, After so much endeavour, having placedHis second stage, cries out, "Tis done!" But he, The elder, harshly chides his brother's glee, Strikes the frail tenement, and so destroysThe fruits of patient toil: The younger weeps:And then the father thus: "Oh, my dear son, Thy brother is the Founder of a realm, Thou the fell Conqueror. "--_Florian_. 

THE BULLFINCH AND THE RAVEN. 

In separate cages hung, the same kind roofSheltered a bullfinch and a raven bold, The one with song mellifluous charmed the house;The other's cries incessant wearied all. With loud hoarse voice he screamed for bread and meatAnd cheese; the which they quickly brought, in hopeTo stop thereby his brawling tongue. The finchDid nought but sing, and never bawled and begged;So they forgot him. Oft the pretty birdNor food nor water had, and they who praisedHis song the loudest took the smallest careTo fill his fount. And yet they loved him well, But thought not on his needs. One day they found him dead within his cage, "Ah, horror! and he sang so well!" they cry, "What can it be he died of? 'Tis, indeedA dreadful pity. "The raven still screamed on, and nothing lacked. --_Florian_. 

THE WASP AND THE BEE. 

Within the chalice of a flowerA bee "improved the shining hour, "Whom, when she saw, a wasp draw near, And sought to gain the fair one's ear, With tender praise: "Oh, sister mine--(For love and trust that name entwine)"But ill it pleased the haughty bee, Who answered proudly: "Sisters!--we?Since when, I pray you, dates the tie?"With angry warmth the wasp's replyCame fuming forth--"Life-long, indeed. In semblant points all eyes may readThe fact. Observe me if you please. Your wings, are they not such as these?Mine is your figure, mine your waist, And if you used with proper tasteYour sting, as I do, we agreeIn that. " "'Tis true, " replies the bee, "Each bears a weapon; in its useThe difference lies. For fierce abuse, And insolence your dart doth serve. Mine gives the chastisement that these deserve, And while you irritate your dearest friend;I take good heed myself, but to defend. "--_Florian_. 

TRANSLATIONS

A MEMORY OF THE HEROES OF 1760. 

FROM THE FRENCH OF P. LE MAY. 

O ye who tread with heedless feet This dust once laid with heroes' blood, A moment turn your backward glance To years of dread inquietude:When wars disturbed our peaceful fields; When mothers drew a sobbing breath;When the great river's hilly marge Resounded with a cry of death. 

Then, full of fire, the heroes sprang To save our heritage and laws. They conquered! 'twas a holiday. Alas, the last in such a cause!Bloody and shamed, the flag of France Perforce recrossed the widening seas;The sad Canadian mourned his hopes, And cherished bitter memories. 

But noble he despite his woe! Before his lords he proudly bends, Like some tall oak that storms may shake, And bow, but never, never rend. And oft he dreams a happy dream, And sees a flag, with lilies sown, Come back whence comes the rising Sun, To float o'er landscapes all his own. 

Oh when the south wind on its wings Bears to his ear strange sounds afar, To him they seem the solemn chant Of triumph after clam'rous war. Those echoes weird of gallant strife E'en stir the coffined warrior-dead, As stirs a nation's inmost heart At some proud pageant nobly led. 

O France, once more 'neath Western skies, We see thy standards proudly wave!And Mexico's high ramparts fall Before thy squadrons, true and brave. Peace shalt thou to the land restore; For fetters shalt give back the crown;And with thy shining sword shalt hurl The base usurper from the throne. 

Hear ye, how in their ancient urns The ashes of our heroes wake?Thus greet they ye, fair sons of morn, For this their solemn silence break. They greet ye, whose renown hath reached Past star on star to highest heaven!Ye on whose brow their halo sits, To ye their altar shall be given!

Arise, immortal phalanxes, Who fell upon a glorious day!Your century of mourning weeds Posterity would take away. Arise and see! our woods and fields No longer nourish enemies!Whom once ye fought are brothers now, One law around us throws its ties. 

And who shall dare our homesteads touch, That for our heritage ye gave:--And who shall drive us from the shores To which your blood the verdure gave?--E'en they shall find the oppressed will rise More powerful for the foe withstood;And ever for such heinous crime Shall pay the forfeit with their blood. 

Ye, our defenders in the past, Your names are still a household word!In childhood's ear old age recounts The toils your hardy youth endured. And on the field of victory Hath gratitude your memory graved!In during brass your story lives A glory to the centuries saved!

THE SONG OF THE CANADIAN VOLTIGEURS. 

FROM THE FRENCH OF P. LE MAY. 

Our country insultedDemands quick redress. To arms, Voltigeurs!To the struggle we press. From vict'ry to vict'ry, Brave, righteous, and just, Ours the mem'ries that cling toOur forefathers' dust. 

Defend we our farm-lands, Our half-crumbled walls!Defend we our sweethearts, Our hearths and our halls!Our dear native tongue, Our faith keep we free!Defend we our life, For a people are we!

No rulers know we, saveOur time-honoured laws!And woe to the nationThat sneers at our cause. Our fields and our furrows, Our woods and our streams, Should their columns invade, Shall entomb their vain dreams!

To our foes, the perfidious, Be war to the knife. Intrepid, yet duteous, We leap to the strife. More terrible shewingIn danger's red hour;We know to avenge, And unbroken our power. 

List the thunderous roarAs the shot rushes by!To our war-song heroic, The chorus of joy. At the ring of the musketTo the battle we fly;Come! come to the field, See us conquer or die. 

What! we become slavesTo an alien foe?We bear their vile trammels?Our answer is, No!Assistance shall reach usFrom heaven's lucent arch:Come! seize we our musketsAnd "double-quick march!"

THE LEGEND OF THE EARTH. 

FROM THE FRENCH OF JEAN RAMEAU. 

[The Prize Poem in the Christmas (1885) Number of the Paris_Figaro_, translated for the _Week_. ]

When the Creator had laid out the deeps, The great illimitable fields of sad-eyed space, A weighty bag upon His neck He threw, Whence issued sound confused of huddled stars;

And, plunging in the sack His mighty hand, He traversed all the ether's wondrous plainWith slow and measured step, as doth a sower, Sowing the gloomy void with many suns. 

He tossed them--tossed them--some in fantastic groups, And some in luminous; some terrible. And 'neath the Sower's steps, whose grain was stars, The furrows of the sky, ecstatic, smoked. 

He tossed them--tossed them--out of His whirling hand, Plenteous in every place, by full broad castsMeasured to rhythmic beat; and golden starsFlew o'er the wide expanse like firefly swarms. 

"Away! away!" cried He of worlds the Sower:"Away, ye stars! spring in the wastes of heaven;Broider its purple fields with your fair gems;Tuneful, elated, gladsome, take your course. 

"Go, wave of fire, into a darksome night, And there make joy, and there the pleasant day!And launch into the depths immeasurableQuick, quivering darts of glowing light and love!

"I will that all within your bounds shall shine, Be glad, be prosperous, happy, blest, content, Shall sing for ever 'Glory be to Thee, Creator, Father, Sower, who with suns Hast filled infinity!'"

Thus He dismissed the stars, weighted with life, Careering round their calm Creator's feetAs, in a desert place July has scorched, The grains of sand may cloud the traveller's steps. 

And glittered all, and sang; and, hindered not, Upon their axes turned, constant and sure;Their million million voices, strong and deep, Bursting in great hosannas to the skies. 

And all was happiness and right, beauty and strength;And every star heard all her radiant sonsWith songs of love ensphere her mother-breast;And all blessed Life. And blessed the Highest Heaven. 

 * * * * *

Now, when His bag of stars he had deplete, When all the dark with orbs of fire was strown, The Sower found at bottom, 'twixt two folds, A little bit of shining sun, chipped off. 

And wondering, knowing not what sphere unknownRevolved in crimson space all incomplete, The great Creator, at a puff, spun offThis tiny bit of sun far into space;

Then, mounting high up to His scarlet throne, Beyond the mist of thickly scattered worlds, Like a great crowned king whose proud eye burnsAt hearing from afar His people's voice, He listens, And He hears The mighty Alleluia of the stars, The choirs of glowing spheres in whirling floodOf song and high apotheosis, All surging to His feet in incense clouds. 

He sees eternity with rapture thrilled;He sees in one prolonged diapasonThe organ of the universe, vehement, rollFor ever songs of praise to Him, the Sower. 

But suddenly He pales. From starry seasA smothered cry mounts to the upper skies;It rises, swells, grows strong; prevailing o'erAll the ovation of the joyful spheres. 

From that dim atom of the chipped orbIt comes; from wretches left forsaken, sad, Who weep the Mother-star, incessant soughtAnd never found from that gray point of sky. 

And the cry said "Cursed! Cursed are we, the lostBy misery led, a wretched pallid flock, Made for the light and tossed into the dark!

"We are the banished ones; the exile band;The only race whose eyes are filled with tears. And if the waters of our seas be salt, 'Twas our forefathers tears that made them so. 

"Be He Anathema, the Sower of Light!Be He Anathema whom worlds adore!--If to our native star He join us notBe He accursed, through all creation cursed, for aye!"

Then rose the God from His great scarlet throne, And gentle, moved, weeping as we, He stretchedHis two bright arms over the flat expanse, And in a voice of thunder launched reply:--

"Morsel of Sun, calling thyself the Earth:--Chrysalides on her grey bounds supine:--Humanity--sing! for I give you Death, The Comforter, he who shall lead you back Safe to your Star of Light, * * * * *

And this is why--lofty, above mishap, The Poet, made for stars of molten gold, Spurns earth; his eyes; fixed on the glowing heavens, Toward which he soon shall take his freer flight. 

THE EMIGRANT MOUNTAINEER. 

FROM THE FRENCH OF CHATEAUBRIAND. 

How doth fond memory oft returnTo that fair spot where I was born!My sister, those were happy days In lovely France. O, country mine, my latest gaze Shall turn to France!

Remember'st thou with what fond pride, Our lowly cottage hearth beside, She clasped us to her gladsome breast-- Our dearest mother;While on her hair so white, we pressed Kisses, together?

My sister, canst thou not recallDore, that bathed the castle wall, And that old Moorish tower, war-worn And grey, From whence the gong struck out each morn The break of day. 

The tranquil lake doth mem'ry bring, Where swallows poised on lightest wing;The breeze by which the supple reed Was bent, --The setting sun whose glory filled The firmament?

Rememberest thou that tender wife, Dearest companion of my life?While gathering wild flowers in the grove So sweet, Heart clung to heart, and Helen's love Flew mine to meet. 

O give my Helen back to me, My mountain, and my old oak tree!Memory and pain, where'er I rove, Entwine, Dear country, with my heart's deep love Around thy shrine. 

FROM "LIGHTS AND SHADES. "

FROM THE FRENCH OF VICTOR HUGO. 

When on the cliff, or in the wood I muse the summer evening by, And realize the woes of life, I contemplate Eternity. 

And through my shadow-chequered lot GOD meets my earnest, gazing eye;As through the dusk of tangled boughs We catch bright glimpses of the sky. 

Yes, when, at last Death claims her own, The spirit bursts the bonds of sense, And--like a nestling--in the tomb Finds pinions that shall bear her thence. 

VILLANELLE TO ROSETTE

FROM THE FRENCH OF PHILIPPE DEPORTES, SIXTEENTH CENTURY. 

In my absence, though so short, You, Rosette, had changed your mind:Learning your inconstancy, I, another mistress find. Never more shall charms so freeGain ascendancy o'er me. We shall see, oh light Rosette, Which of us will first regret. 

While with tears I pine away, Cursing separation drear;You, who love by force of wont, Took another for your dear. Never vane all lightly hung, To the wind more swiftly swung. We shall see, oh vain Rosette, Which of us will first regret. 

Where are all those sacred vows, --All those tears at parting wept?Can it be those mournful plaintsCame from heart so lightly kept?Heavens, that you so false could be!Who shall trust you, cursed is he. We shall see, oh false Rosette, Which of us will first regret. 

He who to my place has climbed, Ne'er can love you more than I;And in beauty, love, and faith, You're surpassed I own with joy. Guard your new love lest he range, Mine, the darling, knows not change. Thus we put to proof, Rosette, Which of us will first regret. 

 * * * * *

NOTES. 

LAURA SECORD, THE HEROINE OF 1812

A DRAMA. 

NOTE 1, page 11. 

The simple heroic story thus enlarged into dramatic form is not unknownto the Canadian muse, but has been sung by several of her votaries, notably by Miss Machar, of Kingston; Mr. John Reade, of Montreal;and Dr. Jakeway, of Stayner. 

Dr. Jakeway's verse is not so well known as it deserves to be, not onlyfor its literary merit, but also for its patriotic fervour, the fervourof a true and loyal Canadian: I shall therefore be pardoned if I quotethe closing stanzas of his "Laura Secord":

 "Braver deeds are not recorded, In historic treasures hoarded, Than the march of Laura Secord through the forest, long ago. And no nobler deed of daring Than the cool and crafty snaring, By that band at Beaver Dam, of all the well-appointed foe. 

 But we know if war should ever Boom again o'er field and river. And the hordes of the invader should appear within our land, Far and wide the trumpets pealing. Would awake the same old feeling. And again would deeds of daring sparkle out on every hand. "

NOTE 2, page 12. 

 And Stony Creek was ours. 

A 49th man thus writes to Auchinleck, p. 178:--"Sir, --To your, accountof the battle of Stony Creek I would like to add a few particulars. Ateleven o'clock at night the Light Company and Grenadiers of the 49thwere under arms; every flint was taken out and every charge was drawn. Shortly after we moved on in sections, left in front, the Light Companyleading the way towards the enemy's camp. I had been driven in thatafternoon from Stony Creek, and was well acquainted with the ground. Thecautious silence observed was most painful; not a whisper was permitted;even our footsteps were not allowed to be heard. I shall never forgetthe agony caused to the senses by the stealthiness with which weproceeded to the midnight slaughter. I was not aware that any otherforce accompanied us than the Grenadiers, and when we approached nearthe Creek, I ventured to whisper to Col. Harvey, 'We are close to theenemy's camp, sir. ' 'Hush! I know it, ' was his reply. Shortly after asentry challenged sharply; Lieutenant Danford and the leading sectionrushed forward and killed him with their bayonets; his bleeding corpsewas cast aside, and we moved on with breathless caution. A secondchallenge--who comes there?--another rush and the poor sentinel istransfixed, but his agonized dying groans alarmed a third who stood nearthe watch fire; he challenged, and immediately fired and fled. We allrushed forward upon the sleeping guard; few escaped; many awoke inanother world. The excitement now became intense; the few who hadescaped fired as they ran and aroused the sleeping army. All fledprecipitately beyond the Creek, leaving their blankets and knapsacksbehind. 

"Our troops deployed into line and halted in the midst of the campfires, and immediately began to replace their flints. This, though not a_very_ lengthy operation, was one of intense anxiety, for the enemynow opened a most terrific fire, and many a brave fellow was laid low. We could only see the flash of the enemy's firelocks while we wereperfectly visible to them, standing as we did in the midst of their campfires. It was a grand and beautiful sight. No one who has not witnesseda night engagement can form any idea of the awful sublimity of thescene. The first volley from the enemy, coming from a spot as 'dark asErebus, ' seemed like the bursting forth of a volcano. Then again all wasdark and still, save the moans of the wounded, the confused click!click!--noise made by our men in adjusting their flints, and the ring ofthe enemy's ramrods in reloading. Again the flash and roar of themusketry, the whistling of the bullets, and the crash of the cannon. 'Chaos has come again. ' The anxious moments (hours in imagination) havepassed; the trembling excited hands of our men have at last fastenedtheir flints; the comparatively merry sound of the ramrod tells that thecharge is driven home; soon the fire is returned with animation; the skyis illumined with continued flashes; after a sharp contest and somechanges of position, our men advance in a body and the enemy's troopsretire. There were many mistakes made in this action, the two greatestwere removing the men's flints, and halting in the midst of the campfires; this is the reason why the loss of the enemy was less than ours, their wounds were mostly made by our bayonets. The changes of positionby different portions of each army in the dark accounts for the fact ofprisoners having been made by both parties. I must give the enemy'stroops great credit for having recovered from their confusion, and forhaving shown a bold front so very soon after their having been sosuddenly and completely surprised. 

"Yours, A 49TH MAN. "

NOTE 3, page 13. 

 Friend Penn. 

Of this character, of whom the writer has made a somewhat free use, Col. Coffin says: "There is a tradition in the neighbourhood that Harveyhimself having borrowed the garb and waggon of a Quaker"--of which sectthere were many settled in Upper Canada at the time--"penetrated intothe American lines, selling potatoes and 'taking notes. ' Those who canrecall the commanding stature and bearing of the gallant officermaintain that this was the very last disguise in which he was likely tosucceed. It is not impossible that some patriotic 'Friend' really founda good market for his produce and valuable information for Harvey. "

NOTE 4, page 15. 

 Hymn. 

An air to this hymn has been composed. 

NOTE 5, page 16. 

 Pete and Flos. 

That the rights of the slave-holder had legal recognition in 1812 is notto be doubted, and that nearly every family of any means or repute heldslaves is certain. The Bill abolishing slavery in the British Dominionsdid not pass until 1832, when it was introduced by Lord Stanley (thelate Earl of Derby). A strong feeling in favour of its abolition hadhowever permeated society, in consequence of the powerfulrepresentations made on the subject, both in and out of the BritishParliament, by Wilberforce and Clarkson, "who had successfully shown, "says Hamilton in his "Outlines of the History of England, " "that theeffect of this iniquitous system was no less injurious to the moralcondition of the people of England than it was to the physicalwell-being of the African race. " That no ill-feeling towards theirmasters generally existed in Canada in the minds of the slaves may befairly inferred from the fact that, at their own request, a colouredregiment was formed to assist in the defence of the country in 1812, andunder Captain Runchey did good service at the Battle of QueenstonHeights. In this connection it is also to be remembered that largenumbers of freedmen were to be found both in England and Canada--menwho for faithful or special services had received the gift of freedomfrom their grateful and generous masters. 

That the Legislature of Upper Canada was free even at that early periodto deal with its domestic questions is shown by the fact that in 1793 anAct was passed at Newark, "forbidding the further introduction of slavesinto the province, and ordering that 'all slave children born after the9th of July in that year should be free on attaining the age oftwenty-five. '" To this Act is due the fact that Canada was as early as1800 a city of refuge for escaped slaves, numbers of whom found theirway hither from Baltimore and Maryland. (_See_ also Appendix)

NOTE 6, page 18. 

 We'll have it though, and more, if Boerstler. 

It has generally been stated that Mr. Secord heard of the intendedsurprise of Fitzgibbon by accident. The facts of the case are, however, related in the poem, Mrs. Smith, a daughter of Mr. And Mrs. Secord, whoyet survives, being the authority. 

Mrs. Smith states that with the insolence of the victorious invader, Dearborn's men came and went, ordered, or possessed themselves of, whatever they chose, and took every form of familiarity in the homes ofthe residents within their lines, and that it was fast becoming ananxious question with the farmers and others, what they should do forsupplies if Dearborn were not ousted within the season. 

NOTE 7, page 19. 

 --and fell a-talking, loud, As in defiance, of some private plan To make the British wince. 

The ill-feeling of the Americans towards British subjects can scarcelybe too strongly represented for the facts. A bitter antagonism wasnaturally the feeling of each side so lately in the deadly struggle of acivil war. To gloss over this state of things, deplorable as it was, andas its results have often been, is to belie history, and to no good oruseful end. Had the contention been akin to a mere friendly tug-of-war, as some would have it represented now, lest a growing friendlinessshould be endangered, it would be necessary for the historian tore-write all that has been written, for otherwise the arguments ofcontention would have no meaning, no _raison d'etre_; in fact, theycould never have been formulated, for the premisses would have beenwanting. "He is the best cosmopolite, who for his country lives. " sayssome one, and it is to this truth that the peace of the world, which weall wish to see established, will be owing, not to any falserepresentations in place of facts. 

NOTE 8, page 25. 

 That hate to England, not our country's name And weal, impelled mad Madison upon this war, And shut the mouths of thousand higher men than be. 

"The Democratic Party, " says Col. Coffin (see "Chronicle of the War, "pp. 30-1-3), "eager to humble Britain, accepted any humiliation ratherthan quarrel with France. They submitted to the capture of ships, thesequestration of cargoes, the ransom of merchandise, with a faintremonstrance. French war ships seized American merchantmen atsea--plundered and burnt them. They consoled themselves with the beliefthat the anticipated triumph of the French Emperor in Europe wouldensure their supremacy on this continent. They were prepared to dividethe world between them.... " In the words of the historian Alison, "theostensible object of the war was to establish the principle that theflag covers the merchandise, and that the right of search for seamen whohave deserted is inadmissible; the real object was to wrest from GreatBritain the Canadas, and, in conjunction with Napoleon, extinguish itsmaritime and colonial empire. Politicians, too, of this early Americanschool had a notion that French connection and the conquest of Canadawere synonymous terms. This was a great mistake ... But ... It had anunexpected good effect, for the very suggestion of a French policy, orthe exercise of French influence, tested the British feeling stilllatent in the hearts of thousands of Americans. In the New EnglandStates a war with England was denounced.... Citizens of these Statesexpressed an abhorrence of France, and of its rule, and protestedagainst the contemplated introduction of French troops on thiscontinent, which, under the pretext of subduing or seducing theFrench-Canadians, might prove to be subversive of their own liberties. 

"It is probable that to this spirit of truthful independence may beascribed the fact that during the whole of the ensuing war (1812-15) theimmense extent of frontier between Lower Canada and the States ofVermont and New Hampshire and Maine was unassailed by an enemy.... Nohostile irruption was attempted upon the Province from Lake Champlain tothe ocean.... War was declared on the 18th June, 1812, by Act ofCongress. Mr. Madison, then President, who had done all in his power toexasperate the existing ill-will, and to lash the popular mind tofrenzy, eluded the responsibility of the fatal act, and made a cat's pawof the Legislature. "

The people of the United States were disunited on the subject of thewar.... The Legislature of Maryland openly denounced the war. TheGovernments of Massachusetts, Connecticut and Rhode Island had refusedthe quota of militia demanded of these States respectively. Such men asQuincey declared in the House of Representatives at Washington that"since the invasion of the Buccaneers, there was nothing in history moredisgraceful than this war. " The same view of President Madison's actionis also held by Auchinleck, Christie, and, indeed, by every trustworthyhistorian of the time. 

NOTE 9, page 25. 

 In opening up a road to reach the great Pacific. 

In 1812 the vast promise of the West had begun to attract publicinterest. The discovery of the Columbia River in Oregon, including whatis now Washington Territory, was made by Captain Gray, of Boston, in1792, and upon this was based the general claim of the United States tothe Territory. The British, however, held a prior claim of occupationand discovery. In 1804-6 Captains Lewis and Clarke explored the wholecountry from the mouth of the Missouri to the mouth of the Columbia, andin 1811 Fort Astoria was built. The Treaty of 1845 settled the questionof claim to this Territory in common with other Western lands in favourof the United States. Although California was not largely settled byUnited States subjects until the Treaty of 1844, yet its reputation forbeing a gold-bearing country was well established, and had beenincreasing in public regard from the time of its first exploration bySir Francis Drake in 1570, who expressed a strong opinion as to itsauriferous character. Long before the famous expedition of ColonelFremont across "the plains, " numerous trails, too often marked by thewhite bones of their victims, bore testimony to the dauntless courageand sanguine enterprise that has opened up the great empire of the West. 

NOTE 10, page 26. 

 Brock! MacDonell! Dennis!

It would be a work of supererogation to say anything of Major-GeneralSir Isaac Brock here, so completely is his name enshrined in Canadianhistory, literature, and tradition. I may, however, be pardoned if Iquote a few descriptive sentences to be found in "A Chapter of the Warof 1812, " by Col. William Stanley Hatch, Acting AssistantQuartermaster-General of the army with Hull at Detroit. 

"General Brock was an officer of distinction. His personal appearancewas commanding; he must have been six feet three or four inches inheight, very massive and large boned, though not fleshy, and apparentlyof immense muscular power. His Aides were elegant young men, very near, if not quite six feet in height, and in their splendid uniforms allthree presented a brilliant appearance. But how transitory andevanescent the gratification of that day and that event!" [the taking ofDetroit]. "In a few short weeks--less than two months--on the 13thOctober, 1812, two of these noble men and gentlemanly officers hadfallen. At this distant day I feel it due to myself and to them torecord the sentiment of regret which impressed itself upon my mind whenthe announcement came that General Brock and Colonel MacDonell, publicenemies as they were, had terminated their earthly career at Queenston. "

Lieutenant-Colonel MacDonell, A. D. C. To General Brock, was "one of fivesons of a brother of MacDonell, Laird of Glengarry, who bore a prominentpart in supporting Prince Charles, called the Pretender.... The familycame out to this country shortly after the American Revolution, andsettled in the County of Glengarry among other Scotch settlers, who hadbeen located on lands in that county upon the disbanding of the regimentknown as the Royal Highland Emigrants. Lieutenant-Colonel MacDonell cameup to Toronto (then York) and studied law, and was appointedAttorney-General of the Province when a very young man, and afterwardsaccompanied, as aide-de-camp, General Brock at Detroit and Queenston, "where he gloriously fell in the gallant charge that followed the fall ofBrock. --_Extract of private letter_. (_See_ also Appendix. )

"I have heard that he (Lieut. -Col. MacDonell) was brought up by the lateHon. Alexander MacDonell, who gave him a valuable piece of property inthe then Town of York to start him in the legal profession. On his wayup the Niagara River with General Brock, having a kind of presentimentof what might happen, the Colonel made his will, and bequeathed the landreferred to, to James MacDonell, eldest son of the Hon. AlexanderMacDonell. The land is now owned by the widow of James (Mrs. M. S. MacDonell, living at 305 Bathurst Street). It comprised the west side ofChurch Street, from Wellington Street to King Street, and went somedistance west. "--_Extract of private letter_. 

Beside the lady above mentioned, several connections of Lieut. -Col. MacDonell reside in Toronto, among them W. J. MacDonell, Esq. , FrenchVice-Consul; Angus D. MacDonell, Inland Revenue Department; and Alex. MacDonell, Esq. , Osgoode Hall. The late Bishop MacDonell was also ofthis family, as were most of the MacDonells who grace the pages ofCanadian histories of the War of 1812. 

Captain James Dennis--the third of the trio whom Mrs. Secordapostrophises--then Lieutenant, had been among the wounded on board the_Monarch_ man-of-war at Copenhagen, but recovered so as toaccompany his regiment to Canada. In 1812 he was in charge of one of thetwo flank companies of the 49th, stationed at Queenston, and gallantlyled the defence, directing the one-gun battery and holding the enemycompletely in check until their discovery of a path to the summit of theHeight turned the scale on the wrong side, where it stood until thearrival of General Brock. In the splendid charge up-hill Captain Denniswas wounded, and, it was supposed, killed; he, however, bravely kept thefield until the day was won, despite pain and weakness. He was notrelated to the Dennises of York, and Buttonwood, near Weston; but twomembers of this family were in the York militia, and served atQueenston. The late Bishop Richardson, an uncle of theirs, also servedin the navy on the lakes, where he lost an arm. 

NOTE 11, page 27. 

 The Widow, Stephen Secord. 

This lady was the widow of Stephen, an elder brother of James Secord, who, in conjunction with another brother, David, a major in the militia, and after whom the village was named, built and owned the grist mill atSt. David's. Stephen Secord appears to have died some years previous tothe war, leaving a family of several sons. With the wisdom and spirit ofa sensible woman the widow carried on the business, and thereby broughtup her family. During the war all her sons were variously engaged in itwith the exception of the youngest, and in the absence of sufficienthelp the widow worked with her own hands, turning out flour for whichthe Government paid her twenty dollars a barrel. Many of the Secords whoare to be found scattered through the Province at the present time arechildren of her sons. 

NOTE 12, page 27. 

 Sergeant George Mosier. 

This character is singular in being the only pure invention in the poem;and the name was chosen as being most unlikely to be borne by any one inthe neighbourhood of Queenston. By one of those coincidences, however, that are not unknown, it appears that there was a Captain Mosier livingat Newark in 1812, and commanding a vessel on Lake Ontario. CaptainMosier was of some service to the British Government, and on oneoccasion was able to be of special use in carrying off and concealing, until the mischievous effect was over, a somewhat hot-headed gentlemanwho in the ardour of his loyalty had thought it his solemn duty to crossthe river and bayonet the sentinel at Fort Niagara. 

NOTE 13, page 27. 

 --all is pretty quiet still Since Harvey struck them dumb at Stony Creek. Along the Lake bold Yeb holds them fast, And Erie-way, Bishopp and Evans back him, "On the withdrawal of the British troops, the battlefield of Stony Creekwas, as before said, for a short space re-occupied by the Americansunder Colonel Burns, a cavalry officer, upon whom the command haddevolved. He merely remained long enough to destroy the tents ... Andstores. He then rapidly retired to the protection of the lines of FortGeorge, though in executing this manoeuvre he was intercepted andsuffered much. On their advance the Americans had been accompanied allalong the lake shore by a flotilla of boats and batteaux. Burns fellback upon this support, and embarked his wounded, and such of his men ashad not yet got under cover, and was slowly creeping down the coast tothe place from whence he came, when, on the 8th June, Sir James Yeo, whoby this time had become master of his own movements, and had got out ofKingston, appeared in the offing; intelligence from the shore hadapprised him of the state of things, and of the position of the enemy;and Richardson (the late James Richardson, D. D. ) dwells with sailorlyimpatience on the perversity of a calm.... A breeze sprung up and thesquadron closed in with the shore, cutting off the twelve rearmost boatsof the American flotilla, laden with valuable supplies and stores. Perceiving an encampment in the woods on the beach, the Commodoredisembarked in the ship's boats two companies of regulars under MajorEvans of the 8th Regiment. This active officer landed, and in theevening having been reinforced by two companies from Burlington Heightsunder Colonel Bishopp, the second deserted American camp was entered. Itwas in a state of conflagration, ... But the captors saved from theflames 500 tents, 140 barrels of flour, 100 stand of arms.... Thus didthis exploit of Harvey free the whole Peninsula from the invaders, andthrew them back upon the mere edge of the frontier with a deep anddangerous river in their rear, between them and their supports andsupplies. "--_Col. Coffin's Chronicles of the War of 1812_. (_See_ alsoAppendix. )

NOTE 14, page 29. 

 She, our neighbour there At Queenston. 

This brave woman was Mrs. Maria Hill, a soldier's wife, who pitying thehungry condition of men who had been called out before day-break on acold October morning, to meet a foe already in partial occupation andtemporarily victorious, had no means of procuring or cooking supplies, and indeed could not even break their fast, except by the interventionof those whose property they, for the time, had been unable to defend. Mrs. Hill carried her little stores on to the field, and leaving herbabe, who crowed and cheered, it is said, as though mightily diverted bythe sight of the red-coats, under the shelter of a wood-pile, lightedfires, boiled water, and carried tea and food to as many of the men onthe field as she could supply. 

NOTE 15, page 30. 

 The Lady Harriet Acland. 

This lady was the daughter of Stephen, first Earl of Ilchester, andaccompanied her husband, Major John Dyke-Acland, to Canada in 1776. 

The story put into the mouth of Sergeant George Mosier may be found inthe _Saturday Magazine_ for May, 1835, and also in Burke's "Romanceof the Aristocracy. " Her beauty, bravery and tender love for her husbandmade the name of Lady Harriet Acland an honour and delight among the menof her husband's regiment, and thus it is that Sergeant Mosier is madeher historian with great propriety. 

In the _Gentleman's Magazine_ for February, 1778, I also find thefollowing note, p. 69, in "Extracts from the Congress Accounts of theNorthern Expeditions":

"Oct. 11. --Some letters passed between the Generals, the first from Gen. Burgoyne, by Lady Acland, whose husband was dangerously wounded, recommending her Ladyship to the care and protection of Gen. Gates. Gen. Gates's answer, in which he expresses his surprise that his Excellency, after considering his preceding conduct, should think that he couldconsider the greatest attention to Lady Acland in the light of an_obligation_. "

NOTE 16, page 30. 

 Save perhaps the Baroness. 

The Baroness Reidessel, the wife of one of the officers of the Hessians. This lady, together with the wives of Major Harnage and LieutenantReynell, was with Lady Acland during the painful march that preceded theaction of the 19th September, 1777. They had followed the route of theartillery and baggage as being less likely of attack on the road, andwhen the engagement begun found themselves at a little uninhabited hut, from whence they could hear the roll of the guns that were carryingdeath to scores of brave men. Here they had to endure a great trial, fortheir only refuge was also the only place to which the wounded, who soonbegan to arrive in great numbers, could be brought for first care. SoonMajor Harnage was brought in desperately wounded. Not long after thenews arrived that Lieutenant Reynell was shot dead, and before the daywas done Major Acland was a prisoner dangerously wounded. Herself savedfor the present such terrible trials, Baroness Reidessel distinguishedherself by her ministrations to her suffering companions, and to thedying and wounded around, thus gaining the affectionate remembrance ofmany a poor fellow who had no other ray of comfort in his anguish. 

NOTE 17, page 37. 

 "Rule Britannia. "

This, together with "The King: God bless him, " and "The Duke of York'sMarch" were at this period new and favourite tunes all over the BritishEmpire. In the _Times_, Oct. 3, 1798, under the heading "Drury LaneTheatre, " it is reported that "after the play the news of AdmiralNelson's victory (over the French under Admiral Brueys at Rosetta)produced a burst of patriotic exultation that has been rarely witnessedin a theatre. 'Rule Britannia' was lustily called for from every part ofthe house, and Messrs. Kelly, Dignum, Sedgwick, Miss Leak and Mrs. Blandcame forward and sang it, accompanied by numbers of the audience. It wascalled for and sung a second time. The acclamations were the loudest andmost fervent we have ever witnessed. The following lines, written forthe occasion, were introduced by Mr. Dignum and Mr. Sedgwick:

 "'Again the tributary strain Of grateful Britons, let us raise; And to the heroes on the main, Triumphant add a Nelson's praise. Though the "Great Nation" proudly boasts Herself invincible to be, Yet oft brave Nelson still can prove Britannia Mistress of the Sea. '

"The audience was not satisfied with this repeated mark of exultation, but in the effusion of enthusiasic loyalty called for 'God Save theKing, ' which was received with reiterated plaudits. "

In another column of the same issue it is told that, "A person lastnight in the gallery of Drury Lane House calling frequently in aboisterous manner for the tune of 'Britons, Strike Home!' wasimmediately silenced by the appropriate observation of another at somedistance from him, 'Why, damn it, they have, haven't they?'"

The great popularity of "Rule Britannia" was owing to its entireconsonance with the spirit of the nation, a popularity not even yetdiminished. A further instance of its use in the celebration of a greatnational event is given in the _Times_, Nov. 7, 1805, in which isrecorded the official account of the Battle of Trafalgar and the deathof Nelson. At Covent Garden, where both the Kembles were then playingtogether with Mrs. Siddons, a "hasty but elegant compliment to thememory of Lord Nelson" was presented. It "consisted of columns in theforeground decorated with medallions of the naval heroes of Britain. Inthe distance a number of ships were seen, and the front of the picturewas filled by Mr. Taylor and the principal singers of the theatre. Theywere grouped in an interesting manner with their eyes turned toward theclouds, from whence a half-length portrait of Lord Nelson descended withthe following words underwritten, 'Horatio Nelson, Ob. 21st Oct. '" Mr. Taylor and the other performers then sang "Rule Britannia, " verse andchorus. The following additional verse, written by Mr. Ashley, of Bath, was introduced and sung by Mr. Taylor with the most affectingexpression. It was universally encored:--

 "Again the loud-toned trump of fame, Proclaims Britannia rules the main; While sorrow whispers Nelson's name, And mourns the gallant hero slain. Rule, brave Britons, rule the main. Revenge the God-like hero slain. "

NOTE 18, page 37. 

 Can you wonder? ... Shot at, etc. 

The cruel treatment of the Loyalists, or _King's Men_, by the_Continentals_, as they called themselves, is one of the featuresof this painful time, records of which abound: the story of Moody iswell known: another as authentic may be here quoted. The Rev. G. A. Anderson, late Chaplain to the Reformatory at Penetanguishene, inwriting to the press with reference to the U. E. L. Celebration in 1884, says:

"My grandfather, Samuel Anderson, was born of Irish parents, nearBoston, 4th May, 1736.... He joined the King's forces, serving underGeneral Abercrombie ... Then under General Amherst, ... And was at thetaking of Ticonderoga.... In 1775 he was offered a captaincy in the_Continental_ service which he peremptorily refused. Some timeafter he was offered the command of a regiment; this he also refused. Hewas at once suspected of being a _King's Man_, taken prisoner, andwith several others, confined in Litchfield gaol, where he sufferedalmost death for two years. One morning, having heard that he and hisfellow-prisoners were to be shot the following day, being a powerful manhe wrenched the iron bars from the windows, and, with his companions, escaped to Canada.... "

A quotation from the "Boston Confiscation Act, " Sept. , 1778, ch. 48, speaks volumes as to the attitude of the new Republic towards theLoyalists: "In Massachusetts a person suspected of enmity to the Whigcause could be arrested under a magistrate's warrant, and banished, unless he would swear fealty to the friends of liberty; and theselect-men of towns could prefer charges of political treachery in townmeetings, and the individual thus accused, if convicted by a jury, couldbe sent into the enemy's jurisdiction. Massachusetts also designated byname, and generally by occupation and residence, three hundred and eightof her people, of whom seventeen had been inhabitants of Maine who hadfled from their houses, and denounced against any one of them who shouldreturn apprehension, imprisonment and transportation to a placepossessed by the British, and for a second voluntary return, withoutleave, death, without the benefit of clergy. By another law the propertyof twenty-nine persons, who were denominated 'notorious conspirators, 'was confiscated; of these fifteen had been appointed 'MandamusCouncillors, ' two had been Governors, one Lieutenant-Governor, oneTreasurer, one Attorney-General, one Chief Justice and fourCommissioners of Customs. "--Lorenzo Sabine, _Historical Essay prefixedto Biographical Sketches of the American Loyalists_. (See further, chapters 39 and 41, vol. 2, Ryerson's _Loyalists of America and TheirTimes_. _See_ also Appendix. )

NOTE 19, page 38. 

 "James Coffin is good. "

The name of Coffin is famous in the annals, military, naval and civil, of Canada, and is scarcely less marked in the history of the earlierUnited States of America. Two branches of the family came, U. E. Loyalists, to Canada in 1775-78. One established itself on the St. John, New Brunswick, the other in Quebec. "Twenty years after the landing fromthe _Mayflower_, the first of the name put in an appearance fromBrixton, near Plymouth, South Devon, England, at Newbury Port, in NewHampshire. " James Coffin, mentioned above, was the sixth son of JohnCoffin, who settled in Quebec, and did such good service at the_Pres-de-ville_, when Montgomery and Arnold invaded the Province. Like all the Coffins, James was of a genial and kindly disposition, andhis appointment as a Commissary Officer permitted opportunities forconsideration and courtesy to people of all ranks, which he did not failto avail himself of. He died Assistant Commissary-General in 1835, atQuebec. 

NOTE 20, page 40. 

 From proffered gifts, or gold. 

"To the soldiers of this regiment (the 41st), as indeed to all others, every temptation had been presented to induce them to desert and enlistin their service, by money, land, etc. After it was found impossible topersuade any number of them to do so the American Government encampedthem, for nearly two months, in a pestilential marsh near Sanduskywithout covering. " (_See_ Dr. Strachan's letter, as Treasurer ofthe Loyal and Patriotic Society of Upper Canada, to Thomas Jefferson, Esq. , Ex-President of the United States of America. )

NOTE 21, page 41. 

 The beech-ridge. 

This was a ridge of high land clad with beeches which overhung a hollowin the road to Beaver Dam, and now forms the basin of the Welland Canal. "The spot, " says Colonel Coffin, "which then rang with the outcries ofthe combatants now resounds with the hum of industry and theworking-chant of the sailor. "

NOTE 22, page 47. 

 The small, neglectful bird. 

This is Tengmalm's Owl, or Death-bird. "The Indians of North America, "says Rev. J. G. Wood, "have a superstition that whoever hears the noteof this bird must whistle in reply, and if the bird returns no answerthe person will die within the year. "

NOTE 23, page 50. 

 Beaver Dam--Decau's house. 

Decau's farm house at the Beaver Dam was British headquarters more thanonce during the War of 1812. Close to this famous spot the town ofThorold now stands, and the interested visitor may reach it by tram-carfrom St. Catharines. Decau's Falls, near by, preserve the memory of theancient settler on the spot in less correct orthography, Decew and lesseuphonious form than the original, which is said to have been also, Decamps. 

Another form of it may be found in "Loyalists of America, " p, 243:

"In the summer of 1800 my mother had a very nice help as nurse. JennyDecow had been apprenticed to a relative, and at the age of eighteen, she received her bed, her cow, and two or three suits of clothing (thosearticles it was customary to give to a bound girl) and she wasconsidered legally of age, with the right to earn her own living as bestshe could. ... Jenny had a wooer, ... Young Daniel McCall made hisappearance. "

NOTE 24, page 50. 

 Fitzgibbon. 

This brave officer is thus described in the letter of "A Green 'Un, " Ihave elsewhere quoted, and which was written in 1852, at which dateColonel Fitzgibbon was yet alive:--"Colonel Fitzgibbon has long beenknown in Canada, in both a civil and a military capacity, and if he wasnow present he would be able to give you much more interesting andvaluable information. At the time of this attack" (Black Rock, July12th, 1813), "he was a Lieutenant in the 49th, and his daring spirit andenergy of character were well known to the whole army. General Vincenthad placed him in command of a sort of independent company of Rangers. Volunteers from the different regiments were asked for, and strange tosay so many men offered that it was difficult to decide who should bepermitted to go. From the numerous young subs. Desirous of joining himhe selected his friend Lieutenant Winder of the 49th (now Dr. Winder, Librarian to the House of Assembly at Quebec), Volunteer D. A. McDonnellof the 8th, Volunteer Augustus Thompson of the 49th; and anotheryoungster of the 49th (the late Judge Jarvis, of Cornwall) who werepermitted as a great favour to join his corps. " Colonel Coffin in his"Chronicles of the War of 1812, " gives a very full account of ColonelFitzgibbon's career, of which only a brief outline is proper here. Colonel James Fitzgibbon was the son of an English farmer, had a littleearly education, and acquired a fondness for reading; his passion forarms was irresistible. At seventeen he enlisted, and the same day, 25th, October, 1798, was made a sergeant. At twenty-one he was madeSergeant-Major. He served in Ireland and before Copenhagen, where the49th acted as marines. He was appointed to an ensigncy and adjutancy, and came to Canada. In 1809 he succeeded to a lieutenancy; and resignedthe adjutancy to command a small detachment in the field. His exploitsat the Beaver Dam gave him his company. He thus rose by dint ofmeritorious service, at a time when commissions and promotions were notso freely given to deserving men as they are now. On this, and on allother occasions, during the war, Fitzgibbon made his mark. 

"At the close of the war, he settled in Canada, and filled many officesof honour and emolument under the Government. His last appointment wasthat of Clerk to the Legislative Council. He retired on a pension, andreturned to his native land, when, in just appreciation of his services, he was made a Military Knight of Windsor. "

NOTE 25, page 50. 

 "The Times. " A newspaper of four pages. 

The first name of this great newspaper was _The Daily UniversalRegister_, but it had taken its latest title as early as 1801. Anissue of that date containing the official accounts of the Battle ofCopenhagen is in the writer's possession. 

NOTE 26, page 55. 

 And gray the dawn, and cold the morn of Rensellaer's attack. 

The 11th October had been first decided upon for the invasion ofQueenston, but it proved one of those fierce October days that drenchthe earth with a cold rain, making roads into quagmires, and rivers intotorrents, stripping the trees of their leafy honours, and notunfrequently tearing them up by the roots. The 13th opened cold andgray, but developed into a fine fall day, much to the convenience of theinvaders. (_See_ also Appendix. )

NOTE 27, page 55. 

 Though sad to me, who caught Brock's latest breath. 

"And our gallant General fell on his left side within a few feet ofwhere I stood. Running up to him, I enquired, 'Are you much hurt, sir?'He placed his hand on his breast but made no reply, and sunk slowlydown. "--_Mr. G. S. Jarvis (the late Judge Jarvis, of Cornwall), inAuchinleck's History of the War of_ 1812, p. 105. 

Mr. Jarvis was taken prisoner at Queenston, but was exchanged for aCaptain of militia within a week. 

NOTE 28, page 59. 

 Affliction leaves him in our hands to do him justice. 

The noble mind is always alert to see that he who cannot take care ofhimself shall be tenderly cared for, and that the more fully, the morehe is exposed to injury by the prominence or delicacy of his position. 

In 1812 the King's malady, which in 1805 is recorded to have affectedhis eyes to such a degree that "he had to wear a green shade ... Aftercandle-light, " and could not "distinguish any person unless he be verynear, " and by the assistance of a glass, had increased to such an extentthat Prince George had to be appointed Regent, and there were not wantingthose who chose the opportunity to laugh at and depreciate the King'scharacter. 

NOTE 28a, page 60. 

 Like dart of Annee-meekee. 

Annee-meekee is the Ojibway for the thunder; "dart of" consequently isthe lightning. 

NOTE 29, page 59. 

 Of whom some fought for him at Copenhagen. 

The majority of the men with Fitzgibbon at Beaver Dam belonged to the49th Regiment, to which Fitzgibbon himself belonged. It was also Brock'sregiment. He had joined it in 1791 at Barbadoes. The regiment beingremoved to Jamaica, Brock was thence obliged to get leave of absence in1793 on account of his health. On June 24, 1795, after doing recruitingservice both in England and Jersey, he purchased his majority. Next yearhis regiment returned from Jamaica, and on the 25th October, 1797, hepurchased his lieutenant-colonelcy, and soon after became seniorlieutenant-colonel. In August, 1799, the 49th Regiment was ordered toHolland as part of the force under Sir Ralph Abercrombie. On the returnof the expedition, the 49th was again quartered in Jersey until thespring of 1801, when it was despatched with the fleet for the Balticunder Sir Hyde Parker. The same year the 49th returned to England, andin the next spring was sent to Canada where it took up its quarters atYork (Toronto). On the flag of the regiment is inscribed"Egmont-op-Zee, " "Copenhagen, " "Queenstown, " and its colours andappointments bear the word "China" and the device of the Dragon. 

Of the career of the 49th Regiment in Canada during the war of 1812-15, it is impossible to speak too highly. From their brilliancy of attackand energy in action the American soldiers dubbed them the "GreenTigers, " and on the fatal day at Queenston, those of the wounded who hadpassed over "had described the charge of the 'Green Tigers' and militiain the morning, and had warned them what they might expect if they camein contact with troops infuriated by the loss of their beloved General"(Auchinleck, p. 106. ) That the 49th revelled in the honour conferred bysuch a _soubriquet_ is clear from the fact that Fitzgibbon'scompany dubbed themselves "Fitzgibbon's Green 'Uns, " and one of them, the late Judge Jarvis, of Cornwall, then a cadet of eighteen, says, overthe _nom de plume_' "A Green 'Un, " in Auchinleck: "We were alldressed in green uniform made from clothing which had been taken fromthe enemy. "

In a private letter to the writer Judge Jarvis says, under date_Cornwall, 7th November_, 1876: "The uniform of the 49th was, ofcourse, of a scarlet colour with green facings, rather a light green. Around the edges of the cuffs and collar was a band of gold lace oneinch wide, thus (a drawing is given). 

"The militia had no uniform during the War of 1812; they were furnishedwith a blanket only. " At the taking of Fort Detroit the militia aregenerally said to have been in uniform, but these were only a few and inthe first engagement. 

"The Americans wore coarse grey or blue cloth, mostly the former. "Homespun; in pursuance of the line of action required by the blockade. "One regiment, the Irish Greens, wore dark green cloth, but they werenot at either Stony Creek or Beaver Dam. "

NOTE 30, page 59. 

 --and the Queen's, too, Who loves all nobleness. 

Queen Charlotte's intense admiration for all nobility of character iswell exemplified by Sir Walter Scott in Jennie Deans ("Heart ofMidlothian"), to whom she showed the most marked kindness and sympathy. This was but one instance out of many which were well known and dulyappreciated by the British people. 

NOTE 31, page 60. 

 You, Cummings, mount. 

James Cummings, of Chippewa, was engaged in the Indian trade. Heaccompanied Clark's plucky expedition on Black Rock, when they surprisedthe work, captured the guard together with several stand of arms, onebrass six-pounder, and a large store of provisions. On Bishopp hearingof this exploit, he fired up, "Hang the fellow, he has got before me. ByJove, it was well done; we'll try it again. " And he did, as historytells. 

NOTE 32, page 60. 

 Twelve-Mile Creek. 

"The site of St. Catharines, formerly known as the Twelve-Mile Creek orShipman's Corners, after the oldest inhabitant of the place, was firstselected as a country residence by the Hon. Robert Hamilton, father ofthe Hamilton who gave his name to the flourishing and rising city whichstill bears it, so early as the year 1800, at which period he owned themills afterwards known as the Thomas's Mills, upon the Twelve-MileCreek, up to which point boats at that time ascended. But it was notuntil after the war, viz. , in 1816, that the town-plot of St. Catharineswas first purchased and laid out as a village by the Hon. W. H. Merrittand Jonathan H. Clendennen, and received the name of St. Catharines, inhonour of Mrs. Robert Hamilton, whose name was Catharine. " --_Anglo-American Magazine_, vol. 3, p. 129. 

NOTE 33, page 60. 

 I have friends beyond. 

These were the household of Miss Tourney, an intimate friend of Mrs. Secord, and owner of a large farm some three miles beyond Beaver Dam. Tothis house Mrs. Secord proceeded, accompanied by an escort furnished byLieut. Fitzgibbon, but, it need hardly be said, not exactly in themanner described. Here "she slept right off, for she had journeyed onfoot twenty miles, and safely, God be praised. " Mrs. Secord returned toher anxious husband on the third day after having started on herperilous undertaking, but neither through the woods, nor on foot, thanksto her brave deed, and the success of British arms. 

NOTE 34, page 63. 

 Ye Yankee rogue! ye coward!

This incident, which Col. Coffin places as preceding the occupation ofBeaver Dam by Fitzgibbon, is thus described by Judge Jarvis in a lettersubsequent to the one already quoted, and which was apparently dictatedby the awakening of did memories by the enquiries that led to the formerletter: "Although I write with great labour and pain" [the result ofrheumatism] "I cannot refrain from giving you the following incident. Lieut. Fitzgibbon, who always preferred going on any dangerousexpedition to sending any other person, on receiving the information ofthe patriotic woman, went forward to reconnoitre. On approaching a smalltavern two American soldiers came out of the door, and immediatelypresented their rifles. He seized the rifles, and crossed them in frontof his person" [Col. Coffin says: He seized the musket of the moreadvanced man and by main strength threw him upon his fellow, whosemusket he also grappled with the other hand'] "so that neither couldfire without shooting his fellow-soldier. Here he held them until one ofthem drew Lieut. Fitzgibbon's sword, and held it up over his head, ofcourse intending to stab him forthwith. The woman of the house saw theposition, and rushed out and seized the sword, and got it from thesoldier's hand. Fitzgibbon then tripped up one of the soldiers andfelled the other with a blow, then took them both prisoners and marchedthem into the line occupied by his company. "

It is a pity this brave woman's name cannot be discovered in order thatit might be added to the roll of those patriotic women whose names adornCanadian history. 

NOTE 35, page 64. 

 Lieut. -Col. Thomas Clark. 

Lieutenant-Colonel Clark, of the 2nd Lincoln Militia, was, says ColonelCoffin, "a Scotchman by birth. " He "was an Indian trader and forwarderof goods to the Western hunting grounds; a member of the firm of Street& Clark.... From the first outbreak of the war Clark was foremost infrontier frail. He had acquired the confidence of his men, and obtainedthe cordial co-operation of those who, like Bishopp, understoodvolunteers, and could appreciate the merits of the extemporaneoussoldier. "

NOTE 36, page 64. 

 "But twenty sir, all told. "

These were militia. "Old Isaac Kelly, " says Colonel Coffin (Chroniclesof the War of 1812), "born and raised on 48 Thorold, a septuagenarian, hale and hearty, who still [in 1864] lives not a mile from the spot, tells how, when he was a boy of eighteen, and was in the act of'hitching up' his horses for the plough, he heard the firing in thewood, and outcries of the Indians; how he ran to his two brothers, botha-field; how the three got their muskets--they were all militiamen--menhome to put in a crop; how, led by the sounds, they crossed the countryto the beech grove, meeting eight or ten more by the way, suddenlyroused, like themselves; how, from behind the trees, they opened fire onthe American train, and on the guns which were then unlimbering to therear, and how the Americans, more worried and bothered than hurt, changed their position, and took-up ground in David Millar's appleorchard. "

NOTE 37, page 64. 

 Boerstler's lost his head. 

Not altogether without reason. "We frightened the enemy, " says JudgeJarvis, in a letter before quoted, "with our Indians, and from soundingthe bugle on different positions to make them suppose we were numerous, and had them surrounded. "

NOTE 38, page 65. 

 Terms generous and honourable, sir. 

"Particulars of the capitulation made between Captain McDowell, on thepart of Lieutenant-Colonel Boerstler, of the United States Army, andMajor De Haren, of his Britannic Majesty's Canadian Regiment, on thepart of Lieutenant Colonel Bishopp, commanding the advance of theBritish, respecting the force under the command of Lieutenant-ColonelBoerstler:

"Article 1. --That Lieutenant-Colonel Boerstler and the forces under hiscommand shall surrender prisoners of war. 

"Article 2. --That the officers shall retain their arms, horses andbaggage. 

"Article 3. --That the non-commissioned officers and soldiers shall laydown their arms at the head of the British column, and shall becomeprisoners of war. 

"Article 4. --That the militia and volunteers with Lieutenant-ColonelBoerstler shall be permitted to return to the United States on parole. 

 "ANDREW MCDOWELL, "_Captain of the United States Light Artillery_. 

"Acceded to and signed, "P. G. BOERSTLER, "_Lieut. -Col. Commanding detachment United States Army_. 

 "P. V. DE HAREN, "_Major Canadian Regiment_. "

--_Auchinleck's History of the War_, p. 175. 

NOTE 39, page 65. 

 The golden epaulettes. 

These were the insignia of a captain's rank in those days, and as MajorDe Haren is made to predict, Lieutenant Fitzgibbon won his company bythe exploit of Beaver Dam. 

A BALLAD OF 1812. 

NOTE 1, page 70. 

 Irresolution ruled. 

Proctor's irresolution, timidity, or want of promptness, led to manydisasters, notably that at Moraviantown, and at length was his owndestruction. 

NOTE 2, page 70. 

 Our people, by forced parole held. 

James says, "No sooner had the American Army got possession of theNiagara frontier [27th May, 1813] than officers with parties were sentto every farmhouse and hovel in the neighbourhood to exact a parole fromthe male inhabitants of almost every age. Some were glad of this excusefor remaining peaceably at their houses, and those who made anyopposition were threatened to be sent across the river, and thrown intoa noisome prison. "

NOTE 3, page 72. 

 The substance all too poor and sparse Our stinted fields may grow. 

The war was declared on the 18th of June, and at once every able male inthe Provinces sprang to arms. The necessary absence from their farmsthus forced upon them curtailed the sowing, and lessened the harvest, though the women and children of every rank did their utmost tocountervail the losses thus threatened. The next year there was less tosow and less, consequently, to reap, notwithstanding the leave grantedto the militia at all possible junctures, to attend to their work; butintermittent farming is not more successful than other occasionallyprosecuted labour, and the war laid bare many previously fruitfulclearings. 

NOTE 4, page 73. 

 Or many-rattled snake. 

An extraordinary danger attended the bite of the rattlesnake in the caseof a married woman. The Jenny Decow alluded to in Note 23 had becomeMrs. McCall, and while working in the field with her husband was bitten. Her husband killed the snake, thinking, according to the ideas of thetime, that by so doing he should save his wife's life; he also suckedthe poison from the wound; but before he had carried her to her cottagethe foot had burst. An Indian remedy was applied, but it was yearsbefore she recovered from the effects of that bite. In the meantime twochildren were born, each of whom turned spotted and sore, and then died. A third born after her recovery was strong and healthy, and grew tomanhood. 

NOTE 5, page 73. 

 Oh, at the mill my brother lies Just at the point of death. 

This was Mr. Charles Ingersoll, after whom Mrs. Secord named her onlyson. He had been wounded, and lay at St. David's Mill in a veryprecarious condition. He recovered, however, to fight again, and tobecome one of Woodstock's most prominent citizens. 

NOTE 6, page 74. 

 The fritil' butterfly. 

This is the small fritillary, a beautiful little creature that may beseen flitting from blossom to blossom, or careering in the early summerair in the manner almost of a tumbler pigeon, before any other of itskind has left its winter's cradle. It is beautifully marked, of a goldenbrown, and the edges, of the wings are bordered with a narrow vandykingof pearly gray. 

NOTE 7, page 74. 

 She hears the wolves' dread bands. 

"Wolves were the pests of the country for many years, and even afterthey were partially expelled by the settlers, they used to makeoccasional descents upon the settlements, and many a farmer that countedhis sheep by twenties at night would be thankful if he could muster halfa score in the morning. "-_See Ryerson's Loyalists_, p. 246. 

NOTE 8, page 75. 

 Doomed St. David's Mill. 

Auchinleck says, "From the 8th of July" [Chippewa was fought on the 4th]"to the 23rd of the month, General Brown, with his enormous force, wascontent to remain without striking a blow, unless an occasionaldemonstration before Forts George and Mississaga, or the wantonconflagration of the village of St David's, be considered as such. "

Of this atrocity an American officer, a Major McFarland, writes:--"Themilitia and Indians plundered and burnt every thing. The whole populationis against us; not a foraging party but is fired on, and not infrequentlyreturns with missing numbers. This state was to be anticipated The militiahave burnt several private dwelling-houses, and, on the 19th instant, burnt the village of St. David's, consisting of about thirty or fortyhouses. This was done within three miles of camp, and my battalion wassent to cover the retreat, as they [the militia] had been sent to scourthe country, and it was presumed they might be pursued. My God, what aservice! I never witnessed such a scene, and had not the commandingofficer of the party, Lieutenant-Colonel Stone, been disgraced" [he wasdismissed the service by sentence of a court-martial for this deed]"and sent out of the army, I should have resigned my commission. "

This disgust was not caused by any half-heartedness in the war on thepart of Major McFarland, for he says in the same letter that "he desiresno better fun than to fight the British troops. "

NOTE 9, page 80. 

 Oh, chief, indeed no spy am I. 

So impossible did it appear to the Indian that a woman should be foundtraversing alone so strongly invested a section of the country, that itwas with the greatest difficulty Mrs. Secord persuaded him of the truthof her story. 

NOTE 10, page 82. 

 Nay, five and forty, one by one, Have borne her from the day. 

From 1813 to 1860, seven and forty. Five is, however, used as a divisionof equality. 

NOTE 11, page 83. 

 And when from o'er the parting seas, A royal letter came. 

"When, in 1860, the Prince of Wales was at Niagara, he went to see theaged lady, and from her own lips heard the tale; and, learning that herfortune did not equal her fame, he sent her, most delicately and mostgracefully, the sum of one hundred guineas. God bless him for_that_, is the aspiration of every true Canadian heart. He is hismother's true son. "--_Col. Coffin's Chronicles of the War of 1812_. 

JUBILEE POEM. 

NOTE 1, page 84. 

 Mercy, whose message bore thy first command. 

The first act of the Crown which Her Majesty was called upon to performwas the signing of the death-warrant of a soldier who had been sentencedto be shot for desertion. The Queen took it keenly, and asked the Dukeof Wellington if there was no possible plea on which the man could berespited: had he _no_ good quality?

"Your Majesty, he is a very bad soldier, having deserted three times;but I believe he is a good husband. "

"Oh, thank you, " the Queen replied, and wrote "Pardoned" across thedocument. 

THE HERO OF ST. HELEN'S ISLAND. 

NOTE 1, page 86. 

This touching incident, bright example as it is of that fine sense ofduty that has built up the renown of the British Army, is related in hischarming volume, "The Emigrant, " by Sir Francis Bond Head. The author, in introducing it, says: "In the different regions of the globe it hasbeen my fortune to visit, I have always experienced great pleasure inpausing for a few minutes at the various spots which have beendistinguished by some feat or other of British enterprise, Britishmercy, British honesty, British generosity or British valour. 

"About the time I was in Canada a trifling circumstance occurred on thebreaking up of the ice, which I feel proud to record. 

"In the middle of the great St. Lawrence there is, nearly oppositeMontreal, an island called St. Helen's, between which and the shore thestream, about three quarters of a mile broad, runs with very greatrapidity, and yet, notwithstanding this current, the intense cold ofwinter invariably freezes its surface. 

"The winter which I am speaking of was unusually severe, and the ice onthe St. Lawrence particularly thick; however, while the river beneathwas rushing towards the sea, the ice was waiting in abeyance in themiddle of the stream until the narrow fastness between Montreal and St. Helen's should burst, and allow the whole mass to break into pieces, andthen in stupendous confusion to hurry downwards towards Quebec. " Thestory follows, and in winding up the account Sir Francis says:"Colour-Sergeant William Delaney, and Private George Morgan, of the 24thRegiment now at Chatham, were eye-witnesses of the above occurrence. "

The dangers Sergeant Neill so bravely encountered are thus graphicallydepicted by Sir Francis B. Head on p. 42 of the same volume, indescribing the breaking up of the ice of the River Humber, a stream nota tenth of the length or breadth of the St. Lawrence, so that the scenebears but a slight comparison to that witnessed on the larger river. "... As soon as the great movement commenced, these trees and the icewere hurried before my eyes in indescribable confusion. Every piece ofice, whatever might be its shape or size, as it proceeded, was eitherrevolving horizontally or rearing up on end until it reeled over;sometimes a tree striking against the bottom would rise slowly up, andfor a moment stand erect as if it grew out of the river; at other timesit would, apparently for variety's sake, stand on its head with itsroots uppermost and then turn over; sometimes the ice as it proceededwould rise up like a house and chimneys, and then rolling head overheels, sink, leaving in its place clear water. 

"In a few hours the turmoil was completely at an end, the torrent haddiminished, the stream had shrunk to its ordinary limits, and nothing. Remained to tell of the struggle. " (_See_ also Appendix. )

LIVINGSTONE. 

Note 1, page 101. 

 Snatched by the hand of God his groaning millions. 

The representations by Livingstone of the terrible condition among theinland peoples of Africa by slavery, tribe enslaving tribe, peoplemaking war upon people for the sake of prisoners to be sent to the slavemarket, and the horrors endured by the poor wretches, thus given over toa fate worse than death, by the greed of the Arabian and certain whitemerchants of the coast, led to action on the part of the British andother Governments, which has done much to break up the inhuman traffic, and will never cease "till that wide wound be healed. "

THE SWEET GIRL GRADUATE. 

Note 1, page 122. 

This little comedy appeared in _Gripsack_ for 1882, and was writtenat the request of the editor of _Grip_, who was, and is, in fullsympathy with all efforts to secure the rights of women. At that datethe Council of University College had refused to entertain theapplication of ladies to be admitted to the lectures of UniversityCollege, and that such an adventure with its _denouement_ did notbecome a fact is only to be credited to the wisdom that, on furtherconsideration, withdrew the objection, for history affords manyinstances of woman's use of a disguise in order to attain her wishes, and the annals of co-education furnish numerous proofs of her equalitywith, and not unfrequently her superiority to, her rivals of the othersex in competitive examinations. 

Note 2, page 127. 

 To think that down in Canterbury, girls. 

The circumstance here so mournfully quoted by Kate was a fact. TheUniversity of Canterbury, New Zealand, was open alike to men and women. The examination papers used were prepared by Cambridge University(England) on the same standing as their own, and were returned toCambridge for adjudication thereon. In 1881 a lady took the degree ofB. A. , the first in the world, and was invested with the hood with some_eclat_. 

NOTE 3, page 136. 

 Who in this city form a ladies' club. 

The Toronto Women's Literary Club, incepted by Dr. Emily H. Stowe, ofToronto, and meeting at her house from 1876 until its resolution intothe Canadian Women's Suffrage Association in 1883, was responsible forthe public agitation of the right of women to admission to UniversityCollege; and also for the circulation of the petition to that end, which, by the kind help of many of members of the Legislature, won fromthe Provincial Parliament a recommendation to the Senate of theUniversity that women should be admitted. Several of the leading fourthyear men of 1882 offered their assistance in circulating the petitionamong the students; and the greatest sympathy was shown by educators inevery part of the Dominion. 

 * * * * *

APPENDICES. 

APPENDIX NO. 1. 

[The following account of 13th Oct. , 1812, written by Lieut. -ColonelEvans, of the Eighth or King's Regiment, Acting Brigade-Major to theForces at that date, will be read with interest, and is doubly valuableas being a piece of well-attested history. ]

GOVERNMENT HOUSE, Fort George. Oct. 15, 1812. 

After dinner on the evening of the 11th inst. , Major-General Brockhanded me a note from Captain Dennis, commanding flank companies of the49th Regiment at Queenstown. After perusing its contents, which were ofan alarming nature, setting forth the highly mutinous state of hisdetachment, his men having deliberately threatened to shoot theirofficers, etc. , the General said, "Evans, you will proceed early in themorning and investigate this business, and march, as prisoners, in here, half-a-dozen of those most culpable, and I will make an example of them. You can also cross the river and tell Van Rensellaer I expect he willimmediately exchange the prisoners taken in the _Detroit_ and_Caledonia_ [two vessels coming from Amherstburgh cut out byAmericans whilst at anchor at Fort Erie] for an equal number ofAmericans I released after the capture of Detroit. "

I reached Queenstown early in the morning of the 12th, and finding manyof the grenadier company confined, and the guard-house gutted, andCaptain Dennis himself in apparent alarm at the state of things, Iproposed proceeding at once to select those most prominent, for example. At this juncture, however, and when about leaving Hamilton's house[Captain Dennis' quarters] a scattered fire of musquetry from theAmerican shore took place, and on a musket ball entering the roompassing betwixt us, I inquired with surprise the meaning of such unusualinsolence. Captain Dennis stating the practice to have existed more orless for some days, insomuch as to render ingress by the river doorhazardous, I deemed it fitting first to cross the river, desiringCaptain Dennis would prepare his men against my return. On passing alongthe river bank for Mr. T. Dickson, the enemy kept up an incessant fireof musquetry till I entered that gentleman's house, but happily withoutmischief. I now begged Mrs. Dickson kindly to, prepare a whitehandkerchief as a flag of truce, asking Mr. Dickson, who was a Captainof Militia, would he accompany me across the water; he had no objection, but both Mrs. Dickson and all present urged the danger of any attempt tocross, convinced as they were, in the enemy's then temper, the flagwould not be respected. Feeling this to be no time for discussing aboutpersonal safety, I took Dickson by one hand and the flag in the other, then descending the precipitous steep to the water's edge, we launchedour frail canoe amidst an unsparing shower of shot which fell all aroundus; nor did the firing cease till the canoe, become quite unmanageable, tossed about in the waters of the strong eddies; when, as if struck byshame at his dastardly attempt to deter us from our purpose the enemygave the signal to cease fire. I was thus relieved (and enabled) onapproaching the shore to observe more calmly all that was passing. Ontouching the ground, with water in the leaky canoe ankle deep, I wasabout, as was my custom, leaping ashore, when a sentinel from a guardbrought to the spot, came to the charge with fixed bayonet, authoritatively commanding me not to leave the boat. To my enquiry forColonel Solomon Van Rensellaer, (the Adjutant-General) with whom Iusually conferred, I was told he was sick. I then stated having animportant message from General Brock for their Commander, which ifinconvenient for their General to receive from me personally, I beggedan official person might be immediately deputed to convey it to him. After some delay, Mr. Toock, the General's Secretary, made hisappearance, but his reply to General Brock's request being abrupt, andas I thought somewhat significant, "that nothing could be done till theday after to-orrow, " I ventured to remind him of General Brock'sliberality towards their people which the fortune of war had thrown intohis hands, entreating that he would again consult his General, andenable me to carry to mine something more satisfactory. In compliance, as he stated, with my wishes, but as it appeared to me, more with theintent to consume my time, rendered precious from its being aftermidday, he detained me in my miserable position for more than two hours, and then returned expressing the General's regret "that the prisonershaving been marched for Albany they could not instanter be brought back, but that might assure General Brock with his respects that all should besettled to their mutual satisfaction the day after to-morrow. " I was nowtoo anxious to depart to wish the parley prolonged, my mind being quitemade up as to the enemy's intentions, and to the course it was mostfitting for me to pursue under the circumstances. It had not escaped methat their saucy numbers had been prodigiously swelled by a horde ofhalf-savage troops from Kentucky, Ohio and Tennessee, which evidentlymade it hazardous for their northern countrymen to show their accustomedrespect for a flag of truce from a foe; but my most important discoverywas their boats slung in the sides or fissures on the river bank coveredonly by the brush, with indeed many decided indications that an attackon our shores could not be prudently delayed for a single day. Undersuch impression the first thing on reaching our own side was the removalby Mr. Dickson of his family from his own house on the beach, the verysite of the prospective struggle, and giving note of preparation to thefew militia which, with the 49th flank companies, were all the immediatedisposable force for the defence of Queenstown. Aware of the imminenceand magnitude of the danger, the lateness of the hour, after three p. M. , and distance from Fort George, Headquarters more than six miles, Ihesitated not assuming the responsibility of liberating all the 49thprisoners, on the specious plea of their offence proceeding from a toofree indulgence in drink, appealing to them for proof of their loyaltyand courage, which they were assured would be severely tested ereanother day dawned. Then, after a rapid but effective arrangement of theseveral points requiring attention, seeing to the re-supply of freshammunition, and infusing all the spirit and animation in my power toimpart, I left Captain Dennis, exhorting his utmost diligence in keepinghis charge on the alert for repelling the enemy's attempt, which Iforesaw would not be deferred. Having to put the many posts on the lineof communication on the _qui vive_, although I rode at full speed, it was past six p. M. Ere I reached Fort George, and then from havingbeen exposed for thirteen hours, under much anxiety, to wet feet andextreme heat, without refreshment of any kind, I was so exhausted as tobe unequal to further immediate effort. Refreshed, I narrated to GeneralBrock all that had occurred, the precautionary steps I had taken, andthe responsibility I had assumed as to the 49th prisoners, which, underthe stated circumstances, I trusted he would approve, and at onceauthorize my making preparations for coming events, so indispensablyrequired. The General evidently doubting at first, hesitated, but seeingmy earnestness in rebuking his attendants of charging my beingover-sanguine, and chagrin at their proffered bets against mypredictions, he became unusually grave, desired I would follow him tothe office, where at his request I succinctly recapitulated the day'soccurrences, adding my solemn conviction that a moment was not to belost in effectually preparing for defence. 

The General now thanked me, approved of all that I had done, and, returning to the dining room, directed officials to be immediatelywritten and despatched by Provincial Dragoons, calling in the militia ofthe vicinity that same evening, those more distant to follow with allalacrity. I was directed to make all requisite preparations atHeadquarters. In this work I was busied till near eleven p. M. , with butfew converts, however, to my convictions, when, worn down by fatigue, Istretched myself on my mattrass. After a slumber of a few hours I wasaroused by a distant cannonade soon after two a. M. , 13th October, butwithout surprise, well knowing the quarters where the ominous soundcame. The General who, himself, had all in readiness at once mounted hishorse and proceeded for the post attacked. His Aides-de-Camp were awoke, and soon followed. Major-General Sheaffe, second in command, assumedcharge at Headquarters, but the impression on General Brock's mind beingthat the attempt at Queenstown would prove only a feint to disguise his(the enemy's) real object from the creek in rear of Fort Niagara, hisapparent wish was that whilst all were held in readiness to act in anyquarter, no decisive movement by the troops should take place till theenemy's intentions were fully developed. The Indians and regularArtillery were, however, promptly despatched, and the _elite_ ofthe 41st with an equal number of well-drilled militia flank companiesready to follow on the first summons. As the day dawned, the scouts Ihad sent out reporting no symptoms of hostile movement in the quarterindicated, these troops all proceeded at double quick for the succour ofQueenstown, the debouching of the head of which column on the main roadappeared to be the signal for opening a brisk cannonade from FortNiagara on the troops, the town, and Fort. 

Soon after, the news of the gallant Brock's unhappy fall reached us, which, by necessarily removing General Sheaffe to Queenstown, thecommand at Fort George devolved on me as next senior officer. At thismoment the scene around was awfully discouraging, the gaol and courthouse were suddenly wrapped in flames, which as containing manypolitical prisoners, I at first imagined the act of an incendiary, butother buildings soon appearing in a similar state of conflagration leftme no longer in doubt as to the new enemy of hot shot with which we hadto grapple, and its easy distance, on wooden edifices I foresaw, must beattended with very destructive effect. Luckily, a _posse_ ofmilitia-men had now come in, which I distributed in separate bodies, collecting all the water-buckets and requisite implements from theinhabitants of the town. 

This arrangement, though in part effective, from the energy and couragedisplayed in extinguishing the flames as they occurred, I felt to beinsufficient in itself for our security; selecting therefore, all theold veteran militia artillerymen with two intelligent staffnon-commissioned officers of the 41st, by bending our whole efforts tothe attainment of one object, we at length succeeded in stopping themischief by diminishing and crippling the enemy's guns, but not beforehe had burnt to the ground many buildings, amongst the number, besidethe gaol and court house, the Chief Engineer's quarters; the moreimportant ones, however, the "Royal Barracks, " "Block House, " "King'sStores" and other public buildings, though repeatedly fired were, bysteady and untiring intrepidity, preserved. Thus temporarily relieved, Iwas enabled to attend to Capt. Derinzy's (commanding 41st Batt. ) note, from which it appeared, he found on arriving at Queenstown, the enemy inpossession of the opposite heights, and our heavy one-gun batterythere:--that the enfilading on our side, too distant from the landing tobe quite effective--then protected by his division--had been powerfullyaided by Capt. Holcroft, of the Royal Artillery, who, unmindful ofconsequences, boldly dashed his gun through the valley into Hamilton'scourt-yard within point blank range, thus succeeding in sinking some ofthe enemy's crowded boats and damping the ardour of his troops forcrossing. Seeing his critical position Capt. Derinzy had sustained himby a party of the 41st Regiment. He briefly mentioned that the spiritedBrock finding on his arrival the 49th grenadiers and militia, thoughresolutely defending the landing-place, hard pressed, had called totheir aid the 49th light company from the Height's summit, the key ofthe position. The enemy, profiting by this step, moved unperceived about150 men--and over a precipitous steep it was deemed impracticable for ahuman being to ascend--who suddenly appeared to the astonished Generaljust on the mountain summit, and the next instant in possession of theredoubt, putting its defenders to the sword. The gallant spirit ofBrock, ill brooking to be thus foiled, with a courage deserving a betterfate, hastily collected the weak 49th company and a few militia;debouching from a stone building at the mountain's brow, with theselittle bands, he spiritedly strove to regain his lost position, but inwhich daring attempt he was killed by a rifle ball entering under theleft breast, passing out by the right shoulder. Capt. Williams by takinga wider range, made a second effort, but as the result proved with tooinadequate a force, the A. D. C. (McDonell), being mortally wounded andCapt. Williams' head partially scalped by a rifle ball. 

These circumstances convinced me General Sheaffe would be morecircumspect than attack without a concentration of every disposable man. Under such impressions, after first despatching Lieutenant McIntyre, 41st Regiment, with about 140 men of his regiment and militia, andafterwards Wm. Martin with every regular soldier and a few activemilitia from Fort George, I hastened to forward, at all hazards, themost active of the men from the many posts on the line of communication. On starting those from Young's Battery, the enemy, as though by signal, re-opened his cannonade from Fort Niagara on Fort George and the town. However mortified by this unlooked-for occurrence, prudence requiredthat whilst sending our whole effective force to Queenstown, Fort Georgeand its dependencies should not be neglected, for what with the alienand prisoners in the Block House, with those set at liberty by firingthe gaol, their number was little short of 300, with but a few rawmilitia left for their security, or that of the fort or town. I was, therefore, left no alternative but to gallop back and ascertain theenemy's power for further mischief. Well it was that I did so, for onreaching the gate of Fort George, I met a crowd of the militia withconsternation in their countenances, exclaiming the magazine was onfire. Knowing it to contain 800 barrels of powder, with vent side-walls, not an instant was to be lost. Captain Vigoreux, of the Engineers, therefore, at my suggestion, was promptly on its roof, which movementwas with alacrity followed by the requisite number of volunteers, whenby the tin being stripped off the blazing wood was extinguished. Thuswas confidence reassured. The enemy, taking advantage of a bend in theriver, had brought a battery with hot shot to enfilade the barracks, magazine and King's stores, and despite all our efforts to dislodge himhe had effectively consumed the store-houses with all the lowerbuildings, and repeatedly set on fire the barracks and magazine. Oursuccess was perfect: the enemy's fire being again silenced and thenecessary precautions taken to avert future disaster, I made anothereffort to reach Queenstown, when I met Captain Chambers, 41st Regiment, with the glad tidings that General Sheaffe, by a spirited and judiciousmovement away to his right, and crossing the vale high up with hiscollected forces, had approached--as to ground--his enemy on morefavourable terms, and that his operations had resulted in the enemy'scomplete destruction. But, for the details of this brilliant success Imust refer to the despatches of the distinguished officer who, with hisgallant troops, achieved it. 

(Signed) THOMAS EVANS, _Brigade-Major to the Forces_. 

[The statement made above by Lieut. -Col. Evans that in the 49th werestill smouldering the fires of the insubordination that Brock himselfhad summarily dealt with several years before, is as remarkable as it ispainful to those who would fain think a regiment famed for its braveachievements in so many engagements, and to which Brock had belonged formany years, could not be guilty of anything so disgraceful as isinsubordination. It must, however, be remembered that of all duties, garrison duty is most trying to the soldier, and to these men, thegreater part of whom were veterans who had fought at Bergen-op-Zoom andCopenhagen, where they had acted as marines, anything approaching to thespirit of the martinet in their superior officers must have been verygalling. 

To this want of tact on the part of certain officers is attributed, bythose who have enquired most carefully into the matter, theuncomfortable state of the gallant 49th at and before the epoch of thewar. 

Even Brock himself was tired of garrison life at such a stirring time athome, and had applied for active service in Europe, and Major-GeneralSheaffe had actually been appointed to his offices, both civil andmilitary, when the declaration of war by President Madison gave him theemployment he was looking for. ]

APPENDIX NO. 2. 

[From the other end of the Niagara Frontier comes an equally interestingaccount of that notable day--the 13th Oct. , 1812, that of LieutenantDriscoll of the 100th Regiment. (See Ryerson's "Loyalists of America andtheir Times. " Vol. 2, pages 36-81. )]

"I was stationed at Fort Erie on the memorable 13th Oct. , 1812. Atdaybreak, having returned with my escort as visiting rounds, after amarch of about six miles in muddy roads through the forests, and aboutto refresh the inward man after my fatiguing trudge, I heard a boomingof distant artillery very faintly articulated. 

"Having satisfied myself of the certainty of my belief, wet and fatiguewere no longer remembered; excitement banishes these trifling mattersfrom the mind; and I posted off to my commanding officer to report thefiring, now more audible and rapid. 

"I found my chief, booted and spurred and snoring--lying, as was hiswont, on a small hair mattrass on the floor in his barrack room, whichboasted of furniture, one oak table covered with green baize, a writingdesk, a tin basin containing water and a brass candlestick, which hadplanted in it a regulation mutton-dip, dimly flickering its last ray oflight, paling before the dawn, now making its appearance through thecurtainless window. 

"The noise I made on entering the Major's sleeping and other apartmentawoke him. As he sat up on his low mattrass he said, 'What is thematter?' 'Heavy firing down the river, sir. ' 'Turn the men out. ' 'Allunder arms, sir. ' 'That'll do. '

"By this time he was on his legs--his hat and gloves on. His hutman wasat the door with his charger, and his spurs in his horses' flanks in aninstant--leaving the orderly, hutman, and myself to double after him upto the fort, some hundred yards off. 

"As we reached it, the men were emerging through the gate in measuredcadence, and we were on our way to the batteries opposite the enemy'sstation at Black Rock. 

"Before we reached our post of alarm the sun was up and bright. We hadnot assumed our position long before an orderly officer of theProvincial Dragoons rode up, and gave us the information that the enemywere attempting to cross at Queenston, and that we must annoy them alongthe whole line, as was being done from Niagara to Queenston, by any andevery means in our power short of crossing the river. Everything wasready on our part. The enemy all appeared asleep, judging from theapparent quiet that prevailed on their side the river. 

"The command to annoy the enemy was no sooner given than bang! bang!went off every gun that we had in position. 

"Now there was a stir. The enemy's guns were in a short time manned, andreturned our fire; and the day's work was begun, which was carried onbriskly the greater part of the day on both sides of the Niagara. 

"About two o'clock, another Provincial Dragoon, bespattered, horse andman, with foam and mud, made his appearance, not wearing sword orhelmet. 

"Said an old Green Tiger to me: 'Horse and man jaded, sir; depend uponit he brings bad news. ' 'Step down and ascertain what intelligence hebrings. ' Away my veteran doubles, and soon returns at a funeral pace. 

"Light heart, light step, " were my inward thoughts. I knew by poor oldClibborn's style of return something dreadful had occurred. 'What news, Clibborn? What news, man? Speak out, ' said I, as be advanced towards thebattery that was still keeping up a brisk fire. Clibborn walked on, perfectly unconscious of the balls that were ploughing up the ground, uttered not a word but shook his head. 

"When in the battery the old man sat down on the platform; still noword, but the pallor and expression of his countenance indicated thesorrow of his soul. 

"I could stand it no longer. I placed my hand on his shoulder. 'ForHeaven's sake, tell us what you know. ' 'In choking accents he revealedhis melancholy information: 'The General is killed; the enemy haspossession of Queenstown Heights. '

"Every man in the battery was paralyzed; the battery ceased firing. 

"A cheer by the enemy from the opposite side of the river recalled us toour duty. They had heard of their success down the river. Our men, whohad in various ways evinced their feelings--some in weeping, some inswearing--some in mournful silence--now exhibit demoniac energy. Theheavy guns are loaded, traversed and fired, as if they were fieldpieces. 

"Too much hurry for precision. 'Take your time, men; don't throw awayyour fire, my lads. ' 'No, sir, but we'll give it to them hot and heavy. '

"All the guns were worked by the 49th men of my own company, and theywished to avenge their beloved chief. Brock, whom they knew and valuedwith that correct appreciation peculiar to the British soldier. They hadall served under him in Holland and at Copenhagen. 

"I had a very excellent reconnoitering glass; and as I kept a sharplookout for the effect of our fire, and the movements of the enemy, Iobserved that powder was being removed from a large wooden barrack intoammunition waggons. The only man of the Royal Artillery I had with mewas a bombardier, Walker. I called his attention to the fact I hadobserved, and directed him to lay a gun for that part of the buildingwherefrom the powder was being taken. At my request he took a lookthrough my glass, and, having satisfied himself, he laid the gun as Iordered. I, with my glass, watched the spot aimed at. I saw one plank ofthe building fall out, and at the same instant the whole fabric went upin a pillar of black smoke, with but little noise, and it was nomore--horses, waggons, men and building all disappeared; not a vestigeof any was to be seen. 

"Now was our turn to cheer; and we plied the enemy in a style so quickand accurate that we silenced all their guns just as a third dragooncame galloping up to us, shouting 'Victory! Victory!' Then again wecheered lustily, but no response came from the other side. Night now hidthe enemy from our sight. 

"The commissariat made its appearance with biscuit, pork, rum andpotatoes, and we broke our fast for that day about nine p. M. 

"How strange and unaccountable are the feelings induced by war! Herewere men of two nations, but of a common origin, speaking the samelanguage, of the same creed, intent on mutual destruction, rejoicingwith fiendish pleasure at their address in perpetrating murder bywholesale, shouting for joy as disasters propagated by the chance of warhurled death and agonizing wounds into the ranks of their opponents! Andyet the very same men, when chance gave them the opportunity, wouldreadily exchange, in their own peculiar way, all the amenities of sociallife, extending to one another a draw of the pipe, a quid or glass;obtaining and exchanging information from one and the other of theirrespective services, as to pay, rations, etc. , the victors with delicacyabstaining from any mention of the victorious day. Though the vanquishedwould allude to their disaster, the victors never named their triumphs. 

"Such is the character of acts and words between British and Americansoldiers, which I have witnessed, as officer commanding a guard overAmerican prisoners. 

"JAMES DRISCOLL, "_Of the 100th Regiment_. "

APPENDIX NO. 3. 

[Lieutenant-Colonel Bishopp was a son of Sir Cecil Bishopp, Bart. , afterwards Lord de la Zouche. He was an accomplished gentleman. He hadserved in the Guards. Had represented Newport, in the Isle of Wight, inParliament. Had been attached to a Russian embassy. Had served withdistinction in Flanders, in Spain, in Portugal and died full of hope andpromise in Canada, gallantly "doing his duty, " and not without avail, for his example still lives. ]

"At two a. M. On the morning of the 11th July, 1813, accompanied byLieutenant-Colonel Thomas Clark, and Lieutenant James Cummings (both ofthe Lincoln Militia), backed by about 240 men--200 being regulars, andforty of the 2nd and 3rd Lincoln Militia, Bishopp swooped down uponBlack Rock, the American naval depot on the River Niagara. 

"The assault was a success; the work of destruction of the naval stores, chiefly by sinking them in the river, was complete. But Porter's forcewas aroused, and a speedy retreat on the part of Bishopp necessary. Themen re-embarked unmolested, and Bishopp was the last to retire. Scarcelyhad they left the bank when the Indians who had crawled to the topcommenced to fire. Part of Bishopp's men were landed and drove the enemyback into the woods.... Bishopp was everywhere commanding, directing, getting his men off. In the confusion of the moment some of the oars ofhis own boat were lost, and she drifted helplessly down stream exposedto an ever-increasing fire. Here Bishopp received his death-wound. Hewas borne back to his quarters, where, in a few days he expired at theearly age of twenty-seven. 'Never was any officer, save always thelamented Brock, regretted more than he was. ' His remains lie beneath amodest monument erected to his memory by the pious care of his sisters, the Baroness de la Zouche and Mrs. Pechall, in the churchyard at Lundy'sLane. "--_Coffin's Chronicles_. 

A tablet to his memory is also to be seen at the family burial-place, Parham, Sussex, England, with the following epitaph:--

 "His pillow--not of sturdy oak; His shroud--a simple soldier's cloak; His dirge will sound till Time's no more-- Niagara's loud and solemn roar. There Cecil lies--say where the grave More worthy of a Briton brave?"

[Lieutenant-Colonel (afterwards General) Evans, Brigade Major, was oneof the most valuable officers of the War of 1812. His cool head, soundjudgment, energy, and capability in administration made him a tower ofstrength to his superiors, all of whom at various times, took anopportunity of testifying to his merits. ]

On the 17th August, 1812, the day after the surrender of Detroit, General Brock wrote to him:--

"Dear Evans, --Detroit is ours, and with it the whole Michigan Territory, the American Army Prisoners of War. The force you so skilfully preparedand forwarded at so much risk, met me at "Point au Pins" in high spiritsand most effective state. Your thought of clothing the militia in the41st cast-off clothing proved a most happy one, it having more thandoubled our own regular force in the enemy's eye. I am not withoutanxiety about the Niagara with your scanty means for its defence, notwithstanding my confidence in your vigilance and admirable address inkeeping the enemy so long in ignorance of my absence and movements, etc. (Signed) I. BROCK. "

There is no need here to allude to the events of the 13th October, 1812, at Fort George, since they are given in Lieut. -Col. Evans' own accountof that day, to be found at Appendix No. 1, and show that his Generalshad good reason for the esteem in which they held him. Suffice it to saythat in the despatches of General Sheaffe from Queenstown; of GeneralVincent from Burlington Heights; of Deputy Adjutant-General Harvey, Burlington Heights, with reference to the successful attack onForty-mile Creek by a wing of the 8th or King's Regiment underLieut-Col. Evans; of General Riall, after Chippawa, Fort Erie, andLundy's Lane; and of General Drummond, after Lundy's Lane, Lieut. -Col. Evans is always mentioned with special approbation. And the same feelingis evident in the public prints of the day, notably the London_Gazette_, the official organ, as well as in histories of the war. 

Previous to his removal to Canada with his regiment, Lieut. -Col. Evanshad been officially connected with the Government of Gibraltar in 1802, at the time that the Duke of Kent, as Governor, was trying to introducesome much-needed reforms, by doing which he brought a hornet's nestabout his ears. In this affair the Royal Duke was ably backed by hissubordinate, and in 1826, when Lieut. -Col. Evans was applying for astaff situation in Canada, his Royal Highness gratefully supported hisrequest. 

Brigade-Major Evans' local rank throughout the War of 1812 was that ofLieutenant-Colonel. 

General Evans was an Englishman of Welsh ancestry. He married a daughterof Mr. Chief Justice Ogden, of Three Rivers, and after occupying severalimportant appointments, returned to Canada, dying in Quebec in February, 1863, and was buried with military honours. His body was afterwardsremoved to Three Rivers, and lies by the side of his wife. 

Major R. J. Evans, now resident in Toronto, to whom I am indebted forthe above particulars, as also for the valuable paper to be foundelsewhere, is a son of General Evans. 

APPENDIX NO. 4. 

Guests from the 'Royal' stroll frequently to the grassy ramparts of oldFort George, whose irregular outlines are still to be traced in the openplains which now surround it. Here landed in 1783-84, ten thousandUnited Empire Loyalists who, to keep inviolate their oaths of allegianceto the King, quitted their freeholds and positions of trust and honourin the States to begin life anew in the unbroken wilds of Upper Canada. 

"History has made us somewhat familiar with the settlement of NovaScotia and New Brunswick by the expatriated Loyalists. Little has beenwritten of the sufferings and privations endured by 'the makers' ofUpper Canada. 

"With the present revival of interest in American history, it issingular that writers do not awaken a curiosity about the Loyalists ofthe Revolution. Students and specialists who have investigated the storyof a flight, equalled only by that of the Huguenots after the Revocationof the Edict of Nantes, have been led to admire the spirit of unselfishpatriotism which led over one hundred thousand fugitives to self-exile. While the Pilgrim Fathers came to America leisurely, bringing theirhousehold goods and their charters with them, the United Empire Loyalists, it has been well said, 'bleeding with the wounds of seven years of war, left ungathered the crops of their rich farms on the Mohawk and in NewJersey, and, stripped of every earthly possession, braved the terrors ofthe unbroken wilderness from the Mohawk to Lake Ontario. '"--_Jane MeadeWelsh, in Harper's New Monthly for August_, 1887. 

"1812--like the characters on the labarum of Constantine--is a sign ofsolemn import to the people of Canada. It carries with it the virtue ofan incantation. Like the magic numerals of the Arabian sage, thesewords, in their utterance, quicken the pulse, and vibrate through theframe, summoning from the pregnant past memories of suffering andendurance and of honourable exertion. They are inscribed on the bannerand stamped on the hearts of the Canadian people--a watchword ratherthan a war cry. With these words upon his lips, the loyal Canadian, as avigilant sentinel, locks forth into the gloom, ready with his challenge, hopeful for a friendly response but prepared for any other. The peopleof Canada are proud of the men, and of the deeds, and of therecollections of those days. They feel that the War of 1812 is anepisode in the story of a young people, glorious, in itself and full ofpromise. They believe that the infant which, in its very cradle, couldstrangle invasion, struggle and endure bravely and without repining, iscapable of a nobler development, if God wills furthertrial. "--_Coffin's Chronicles of the War, Chapter I. , preamble_. 

APPENDIX NO. 5. 

[Mr. Le Moine, in "Quebec Past and Present, " states that slavery wasfinally abolished in Canada in 1803. ] "Near Fort George, less than acentury ago, stood the first Parliament House of Upper Canada--abuilding rude in comparison with the massive pile, the Bishop's Palace, used for a similar purpose at Quebec--but memorable for one at least ofthe many liberal laws its homespun representatives enacted. Here, seventy years before President Lincoln's Emancipation Proclamation, thefirst United Empire Loyalist Parliament, like the embattled farmers atConcord, 'fired a shot heard round the world. ' For one of the firstmeasures of the exiled patricians was to pass an act forbidding slavery. Few readers know that at Newark--now Niagara, Ontario--was enacted thatlaw by which Canada became, not only the first country in the world toabolish slavery, but as such, a safe refuge for the fugitive slaves fromthe Southern States. "--_Jane Meade Welsh, in Harper's New Monthly, August_, 1887. 

APPENDIX NO. 6. 

[The Twenty-fourth or Second Warwickshire Regiment, now the South WalesBorderers, is of ancient and gallant fame. On its colours are inscribed"Egypt, " "Cape of Good Hope, " "Talavera, " "Fuentes d'Onor, " "Salamanca, ""Vittoria, " "Pyrenees, " "Nivelle, " "Orthes, " "Peninsula"--a goodly show. ]

To us, perhaps, the claims of the Regiment upon our admiration areeclipsed by those upon our pity when we remember the terrible disasterof Isandula in 1879, when six companies of the Regiment were cut topieces, and as it was at first feared, the colours lost. But it was notso; several companies of the 1st Battalion had fought in the victoriousaffair of Rorke's Drift the day before, and "Lieutenant Bromhead" saysthe _Daily News_ of Feb. 21, 1879: "1st Battalion, 24th Regiment, and Lieutenant Chard, R. E. , left in charge of the Drift with a companyof the 24th Regiment, first received intimation of the disaster [atIsandula] from fugitives making for the Drift. Lieutenant Coghill withothers rode away to communicate with Helgmakaar, and were killed byZulus in crossing the river. "

With Lieutenant Coghill was Lieutenant Melville carrying the colours. The company holding the Drift was annihilated by the on-rushing savages, and no tidings of the colours could be gained until some days afterwhen, behind a mound, were found the bodies of the two braveLieutenants, one of whom grasped the pole with hands stiffened in deathand around the other the precious flag was wound, "safe on the heart ofa soldier. "

The following touching lines will be welcome to the lover of noble deeds;it is to be regretted that the name of the poet cannot also be given:--

 THE LOST COLOURS. 

Who said we had lost the Colours? Who carried the tale away. And whispered it low in England, With the deeds of that awful day?The story was washed, they tell us, Freed from a touch of shame--Washed in the blood of those who died. Told in their sacred name. 

But they said we had lost the Colours, And the Colours were safe, you see;While the story was told in England, Over the restless sea. They had not the heart to blame us. When they knew what the day had cost;But we felt the shame of the silence laid On the Colours they thought were lost. 

And now to its farthest limit They will listen and hear our cry;How could the Colours be lost, I say, While one was left to die?Safe on the heart of a soldier, Where else could the Colours be!I do not say they were found again, For they never were lost, you see. 

Safe on the heart of a soldier, Knotted close to his side, Proudly lie on the quiet breast, Washed in the crimson tide!For the heart is silent forever, Stirred by no flitting breath, And the Colours he saved are a fitting shroud, And meet for a soldier's death. 

What more would they know in England? The Colours were lost, they said;And all the time they were safe, of course, Though the soldier himself was dead. The band was stiff, and the heart was cold And feeble the stalwart limb;But he was one of the Twenty-fourth, So the Colours were safe with him. 

The following which appeared in the Toronto _World_, Saturday, July 16, 1887, will also be found of interest to those whose sympathieshave been awakened by the poem:

"NO LONGER THE TWENTY-FOURTH. "

_How the Heroes of Isandklwana came to be called South Wales Borderers_. 

"In the London _Graphic_ there have appeared lately several goodarticles headed 'Types of the British Army, ' with excellent full-sheetcoloured cuts, by eminent artists, of men in marching order or otherwisebelonging to the corps on which the article is written. The last one isin the _Graphic_ of April 30, being the fourth to appear, and thepicture represents a soldier of the gallant 24th Regiment. Much has beensaid by old officers and soldiers in the press relative to the abolitionof the time-honoured numbers of the old corps, and now this splendid oldregiment is no longer the 24th, but since 1881 is called the 'SouthWales Borderers. ' And not only did the historical old number disappearfrom the Army List, according to the new system, but they lost theirgreen facings, and now wear the white, which all regiments, English andWelsh, according to the territorial system, have to wear. The Irish weargreen, the Scotch yellow, and all Royal regiments wear blue. TheArtillery and 60th Rifles have red facings, and the Rifle Brigade black. Corps on the line now go by territorial titles. First and secondbattalions and many old regiments are joined to other old corps whichformerly had nothing whatever to do with the county or province fromwhich they now derive their title. " In connection with this a formercaptain in the 46th writes to the Montreal _Witness_ as follows:

"It may be interesting to many to know the reason why regiments now beartheir new titles; and, as the writer was intimately acquainted with the24th before the fearful calamity at Isandhlwana--where they wereannihilated in 1879 by the Zulus--and was stationed with them in Brecon, South Wales, he can give the rather curious origin of their presenttitle. 

"Some time before the Zulu campaign, there were many sweeping changesmade in the army, amongst them being the abolition of numbers, and anorder was issued that all members of militia, yeomanry and volunteers athome should have their adjutants appointed from officers serving on fullpay with the regiments of cavalry or infantry, and that the artillery, militia and volunteers, should have their adjutants from the RoyalArtillery or Marine Artillery; the appointment to last for five years, and at the expiration of that time the officer to return to his corps, and another one to succeed him. The writer was at that time adjutant ofthe 46th Regiment, and the first to be thus appointed to the RoyalBrecon Rifles, South Wales--a small corps of only four companies. Therewas another smaller corps of only two companies in the adjoining county, Radnorshire, and, perhaps for economy's sake, it was ordered that bothof these corps should be made one regiment. Each wanted to retain itsold militia designation, but it was decided by the officers to give thema totally new one, and they were christened the 'South Wales Borderers. '

"Brecon was made a depot centre, and the 24th Regiment were to recruitand have their depots there. Being then without a title they took thatof the local militia, and are, therefore, now the '1st and 2ndBattalions South Wales Borderers. ' But they will always be known as thetime-honoured 24th, who lost one colonel, one major, four captains, fourteen lieutenants and seven entire companies, including band, buglersand drummer boys, at Isandhlwana. Lieutenants Melville and Coghill, onthat occasion, seeing that all was lost, attempted to save the colours. Melville was first hit, and Coghill turned back to share his fate. Thecolours were afterwards found in the bed of the Buffalo River, and whenbrought home Her Majesty tied a small wreath of immortelles on the staffhead at Osborn. They are still in the possession of the regiment, andthe wreath presented by Her Majesty is preserved in a handsomehermetically-sealed oak box, mounted in silver. "

APPENDIX NO. 7. 

[In his "La Litterature au Canada Francais" M. Bender says of M. L. Pamphile Le May:]

"Le May sings in a clear and tender voice, reminding one of Alfred deVigny, and approaching the elegance and polish of that poet.... In wordsof melody he celebrates the beauties of rural life and scenery. He istouching, pleasing and sympathetic. He knows his subject well; he hasseen it, he has felt it, he has loved it; indeed he yields too much toinspiration, and does not sufficiently finish his verse, nor does hefully develop his idea so as to reap all its wealth.... His creationsevince originality and beauty of form. " In his preface to "EssaisPoetiques, " published 1865, M. Leon P. Le May tells his readers that hisfriends discouraged him in his worship of the Muse; they saidverse-making did not pay, that it cost a man too much to devote himselfto an art so little esteemed. But he sang nevertheless, and Canadianliterature in the French language is the richer by much that is sweet, tender, beautiful and inspiring. We ought to thank M. Le May for beingwiser than his advisers; and such of us as have not yet consideredCanadian Literature worthy of especial regard would do well to hunt upthe numerous volumes that lie all but unknown upon booksellers' shelves, and convince themselves that there is a field of intellectual enjoymentopen to them of which they may be justly proud to be the heirs.