Laura Secord, the heroine of 1812: A Drama; and Other Poems
by Sarah Anne Curzon · English · Gutenberg #7228 · 343,143 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: Laura Secord, the heroine of 1812: A Drama; and Other Poems
Author: Sarah Anne Curzon
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Most recently updated: February 12, 2015
Language: English
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LAURA SECORD, THE HEROINE OF 1812: A DRAMA; AND OTHER POEMS ***
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LAURA SECORD, THE HEROINE OF 1812: _A DRAMA_ AND OTHER POEMS.
BY SARAH ANNE CURZON
* * * * *
"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."
* * * * *
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 name
of a brave woman, and set it in its proper place among the heroes of
Canadian history. During the first few years of her residence in Canada
the author was often astonished to hear it remarked, no less among
educated than uneducated Canadians, that "Canada has no history;" and
yet on every hand stories were current of the achievements of the
pioneers, and the hardships endured and overcome by the United Empire
Loyalists. Remembering that, as soon as she had conquered the merest
rudiments of reading and grammar at school, she was set to learn English
History, and so become acquainted with the past of her country, it
seemed to the writer that there was something lacking in a course of
teaching that could leave Canadians to think that their country had no
historical past. Determined to seek out for herself the facts of the
case, it was with feelings of the deepest interest that she read such of
the contributions to the newspaper press as came in her way during the
debate with regard to the pensions asked of Government for the surviving
veterans of 1812 in 1873-4. Among these was incidentally given the story
of Mrs. Secord's heroic deed in warning Fitzgibbon. Yet it could not
pass without observation that, while the heroism of the men of that date
was dwelt upon with warm appreciation and much urgency as to their
deserts, Mrs. Secord, as being a woman, shared in nothing more tangible
than an approving record. The story, to a woman's mind, was full of
pathos, and, though barren of great incidents, was not without a due
richness of colouring if looked at by appreciative eyes. Nor were the
results of Laura Secord's brave deed insignificant. Had the Americans
carried Beaver Dams at that juncture, the whole peninsula was before
them--all its supplies, all its means of communication with other parts
of the Province. And Canada--Upper Canada, at least--would have been in
the hands of the invaders until, by a struggle too severe to be
contemplated calmly, they had been driven forth. To save from the sword
is surely as great a deed as to save with the sword; and this Laura
Secord did, at an expense of nerve and muscle fully equal to any that
are 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 her
name on the roll of Canadian heroes, inspired the poem that bears her
name. But the tribute to her memory would not be complete were it to
omit an appeal to Canadians, especially to the inhabitants of this
Province, 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 lies
buried.
Nor does it seem asking more than a graceful act from the Government of
the Dominion--a Dominion which, but for her, might never have been--to
do its share in acknowledgment. One of her daughters still lives, and if
she 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 year
later, but, owing to the inertness of Canadian interest in Canadian
literature at that date, could not be published. It is hoped that a
better 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 to
enquire into the antecedents of those who, by the greatness of their
virtues have added value to the records of human history. Whether such
inquiry increases our estimation of such value or not, it must always be
instructive, and therefore inspiring. Under this impression I have
sought on every hand to learn all that could be gathered of the history
of 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 beyond
tradition has conserved anything of all that we would now like to know
of the heroism, the bravery, the endurance, the trials of that bold army
of 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 to
come. In such a light the simple records that follow will be attractive.
Laura Secord came of loyal blood. She was the daughter of Mr. Thomas
Ingersoll, the founder of the town of Ingersoll, and his wife Sarah, the
sister of General John Whiting, of Great Barrington, Berkshire County,
Mass. At the close of the War of 1776, Mr. Ingersoll came to Canada on
the invitation of Governor Simcoe, an old friend of the family, and
founded a settlement on the banks of the Thames in Oxford County. On the
change of government, Mr. Ingersoll and his struggling settlement of
eighty or ninety families found their prospects blighted and their
future imperilled; Mr. Ingersoll therefore saw it necessary to remove to
Little York, and shortly afterward settled in the township of Etobicoke.
There he resided until some time after the War of 1812-14, when he
returned with his family to Oxford County. Here he died, but left behind
him worthy successors of his honourable name in his two sons, Charles
and James.
Charles Ingersoll, with that active loyalty and heroic energy which
alike characterized his patriotic sister, Mrs. Secord, held prominent
positions in the gift of the Government and of the people, and was also
a 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 a
magistrate of high repute, and occupied a foremost position in the
militia, in which he held the rank of Lieutenant-Colonel at the time of
his death. This event took place on the 9th August, 1886, at which date
he had been Registrar for the County of Oxford fifty-two years.
That Mrs. Secord should be brave, ready, prompt in action, and fervent
in patriotism is not surprising, seeing that all the events of her
childhood and youth were blended with those of the settlement of Upper
Canada by the U. E. Loyalists, in whose ranks her family held so
honourable a position, and whose character and sentiments were at all
times to be depended upon.
The family of Secord, of which she became so distinguished a member, was
also a notable one. Family documents exist which show that in the reign
of Louis the Tenth of France a certain Marquis D'Secor was a Marshal of
His Majesty's Household. A son of this Marquis embraced the Protestant
religion, as did younger branches of the family. During the persecution
of the Huguenots many of them suffered at the stake, and the family
estates, situated at La Rochelle, were confiscated. The survivors
escaped the massacre of St. Bartholomew by flight to England along with
many other noble families, among whom were the Comte de Puys, the
Baudeaux, and a Holland family, the Van Cortlandts.
Eventually five brothers emigrated to America where they settled in New
Jersey, purchasing large tracts of land, founding New Rochelle and
engaging in lumbering. On the breaking out of the Revolutionary War the
family divided, the Loyalists changing their patronym to Secord by
placing the prefix "d" at the end of their name. These brothers after,
as King's men, losing, in common with all the Loyalists, their property
and estates, emigrated to New Brunswick, again engaging in lumbering and
milling operations, and; there certain of their descendants are to be
found today. Some of these, and their sons, again removed to Canada
West, where one of them, commonly called "Deaf John Secord," who married
Miss Wartman, of Kingston, was known all along the coast from St. John
to Quebec for his hospitalities. Among those who settled in the Niagara
district were Stephen Secord, the miller of St. David's, Major David
Secord, after whom the village was named, and James Secord, the husband
of 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, the
only record I have been able to procure is to be found in _A History
of 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 the
kind courtesy of Miss Louisa Murray, of Stamford. It is as follows: "The
Second Lincoln Militia, under Major David Secord, distinguished
themselves in this action [the Battle of Chippewa] by feats of genuine
bravery and heroism, stimulated by the example of their gallant leader,
which are seldom surpassed even by the most experienced veterans. Their
loss was proportionate with that of the regular army."
At the outbreak of the War of 1812, Mr. James Secord was living at
Queenston, where he had a lumber mill and stores. He held the rank of
Captain in the Lincoln Militia until close on the American invasion, but
resigned in dudgeon at some action of his superior officer, and thus it
is that in the relation of Mrs. Secord's heroic deed he is not
designated by any rank. At the first call to arms, however, Mr. Secord
at once offered his services, which were gladly accepted, and he was
present at the Battle of Queenston Heights. Here he was severely wounded
in the leg and shoulder, and lay on the field as one dead, until rescued
by his brave wife. He never fully recovered from his wounds, and
received an acknowledgment of his voluntary services to the Government
in the appointment to the post of Collector of Customs at the Port of
Chippewa, which he held until his death in 1841.
The married life of Mr. and Mrs. Secord was a most happy one. Their
third daughter, Mrs. Harriet Smith, who still survives, a cheerful and
vivacious lady of eighty-six, says that her father and mother were most
devoted to each other, and lived in the closest mutual affection.
At the date of the Battle of Queenston Heights, the family consisted of
four daughters and one son: Mary--with whom the great Tecumseh is said
to have been in love--who was married to Dr. Trumbull, Staff-surgeon to
the 37th Regiment, and died in Jamaica; Charlotte, "the belle of
Canada," who, died during a visit to Ireland; Harriet--Mrs. Smith--who
still survives and lives in great retirement with her eldest daughter at
Guelph; and Appolonia, who died at the early age of eighteen. Charles,
the only son, lived at Newark, and his surviving children are Mr. James
B. 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, of
Palmerston, and died young, leaving one daughter, Laura.
Mrs. Smith relates that she very well remembers her mother setting off
for St. David's, ostensibly to see her brother Charles, who lay sick at
the mill, and her father's ill-concealed agitation during that trying
day. What must the night have been to him? She also relates that during
the short occupation of Queenston by the invaders, their soldiery were
very tyrannical, entering the houses and stores to look for money and
help themselves to plunder, and even destroying the bedding, by ripping
it up with their swords and bayonets, in the search. Mrs. Secord who had
a store of Spanish doubloons, heirlooms, saved them by throwing them
into a cauldron of water which hung on a crane over a blazing fire. In
this she unconsciously emulated the ready wit of one of her husband's
Huguenot progenitors, a lady, who during the persecution that followed
the Revocation of the Edict of Nantes, at a period of domiciliary search
for incriminating proofs of unorthodoxy, is said to have thrown a copy
of the Bible--a doubly precious treasure in those days--into a churn of
milk from whence it was afterwards rescued little the worse, thanks to
heavy binding and strong clasps.
Envy having sent a shaft at even so warm and patriotic a breast as that
of Mrs. Secord, Col. Fitzgibbon sent her a certificate, dated only a
short time before his death, vouching to the facts of the heroic deed.
It was evidently one of the cruel necessities of this hard life. The
certificate runs as follows:
FITZGIBBON'S CERTIFICATE.
"I do hereby certify that Mrs. Secord, the wife of James Secord, of
Chippewa, Esq., did, in the month of June, 1813, walk from her house in
the village of St. David's to Decamp's house in Thorold, by a circuitous
route of about twenty miles, partly through the woods, to acquaint me
that the enemy intended to attempt by surprise to capture a detachment
of the 49th Regiment, then under my command; she having obtained such
knowledge from good authority, as the event proved. Mrs. Secord was a
person of slight and delicate frame; and made the effort in weather
excessively warm, and I dreaded at the time that she must suffer in
health in consequence of fatigue and anxiety, she having been exposed to
danger from the enemy, through whose line of communication she had to
pass. The attempt was made on my detachment by the enemy, and his
detachment, consisting of upwards of 500 men, with a field-piece and
fifty dragoons, was captured in consequence. I write this certificate in
a moment of much hurry and from memory, and it is, therefore, thus
brief.
"(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. To
assist in so doing, it will not be amiss to quote the following, from
Coffin's _Chronicles of the War_, bearing on the prudential reasons
of Proctor's retreat at Moravian Town. "But whether for advance or for
retreat, the by-paths of the forest intermediate were such as the
macadamized and locomotive imagination of the present day cannot
encompass. A backwoodsman, laden with his axe, wading here, ploutering
there, stumbling over rotted trees, protruding stumps, a bit of
half-submerged corduroy road for one short space, then an adhesive clay
bank, then a mile or two or more of black muck swamp, may,
possibly,--clay-clogged and footsore, and with much pain in the small of
his 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 his
day's work." This was written of a time of year when the fall rains
predict an approaching winter. Mrs. Secord's exploit was made on the
23rd of June, a time when the early summer rains that set the fruit and
consecrate an abundant harvest with their blessing, nevertheless make
clay banks slippery, and streams swift, and of these latter the whole
Niagara district was full. Many have now been diverted and some dried
up. I am happy to be able to give my readers the heroine's own simple
account 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," to
whom the aged lady in 1862 recounted it in a letter (given in a note in
Mr. 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 returned
again to Queenston, where my courage again was much tried. It was there
I gained the secret plan laid to capture Captain Fitzgibbon and his
party. I was determined, if possible, to save them. I had much
difficulty in getting through the American guards. They were ten miles
out in the country. [Footnote: The American sentries were out ten miles
into the country; that is, at any point commanding a possible line of
communication within a radius of ten miles from Fort George, Mrs. Secord
might come upon an American sentry. The deep woods, therefore, were her
only security. These she must thread to the best of her ability, with
what knowledge she might possess of the woodman's craft, for even a
blazed path was not safe. And by this means she must get out of American
cover and into British lines. To do this she must take a most circuitous
route, as she tells us, all round "by Twelve-mile Creek," whose port is
St. Catharines, climbing the ridge that is now cut through by the
Welland Canal, and thus doubling upon what would have been the straight
route, and coming on Fitzgibbon from the back, from the way of his
supports, for Major de Haren lay at Twelve-mile Creek, but not within
several miles of where the heroine crossed it. And it was dark, and
within a few hours of the intended surprise when she reached it. To go
to De Haren, even though it might have been nearer at that point--it may
not have been so, however--was a greater risk to Fitzgibbon, whose
safety she was labouring to secure, than to send him aid which might
only reach him after the event. Forgetting her exhaustion she proceeds,
fulfils her errand, and saves her country. _And shall that country let
her 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 nineteen
miles. By that time daylight had left me. I yet had a swift stream of
water (Twelve-mile Creek) to cross over on an old fallen tree, and to
climb a high hill, which fatigued me very much.
"Before I arrived at the encampment of the Indians, as I approached they
all arose with one of their war yells, which, indeed, awed me. You may
imagine what my feelings were to behold so many savages. With forced
courage I went to one of the chiefs, told him I had great news for his
commander, and that he must take me to him or they would all be lost. He
did not understand me, but said, 'Woman! What does woman want here?' The
scene by moonlight to some might have been grand, but to a weak woman
certainly terrifying. With difficulty I got one of the chiefs to go with
me to their commander. With the intelligence I gave him he formed his
plans and saved his country. I have ever found the brave and noble
Colonel Fitzgibbon a friend to me. May he prosper in the world to come
as 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 the
veteran soldiers of the Canada side of the Niagara frontier signed an
address to his Royal Highness; Mrs. Secord claimed the privilege of
signing it. 'Wherefore?' was asked. She told her story, and it was
allowed that she eminently deserved a place among the signers. Her story
was repeated to the Prince. He was greatly interested, and learning that
the heroine had not much of this world's goods, sent her $500 soon after
his return home, in attestation of his appreciation of her patriotism."
Her sole surviving daughter at this date, says the gift was carried to
her mother by ten gentlemen who had formed part of the Prince's suite.
A correspondent at Drummondville, to whom I am indebted for several
Valuable particulars, says: "Mrs. Laura Second is remembered here as a
fine, tall, strong woman. Strong, too, in mind, purpose, determination,
and yet womanly and maternal withal. She is spoken of as _indeed a
brave 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, untaught
Indians.
"In connection with her chief act of heroism the following anecdote has
been told me:--Three American soldiers called at her log house at
Queenston to ask for water. One of them said, 'You have a nice place
here, missis, when we come for good to this country we'll divide the
land, and I'll take this here for my share.' Mrs. Secord was so nettled
by the thoughts expressed that although the men were civil and
respectful, she replied sharply, 'You scoundrel you, all you'll ever get
here will be six feet of earth!'
"When they were gone her heart reproached her for her heat, because the
men had not molested her nor her property." (Yet her indignation was
righteous, since they were invaders in the worst sense of the term,
having no lawful cause for their invasion.) "Two days after two of the
men returned. They said to Mrs. Secord, 'You were right about the six
feet of earth, missis! The third man had been killed."
In speaking of the heroine, Mr. James B. Secord, of Niagara, says in a
letter to me, "My grandmother was of a modest disposition, and did not
care to have her exploit mentioned, as she did not think she had done
any thing extraordinary. She was the very last one to mention the
affair, and unless asked would never say any thing about it."
This noble-minded and heroic woman died in 1868, aged ninety-three
years. She lies in Drummondville Churchyard, by the side of the husband
she loved so well. Nothing but a simple headstone, half defaced, marks
the place where the sacred ashes lie. But surely we who enjoy the
happiness she so largely secured for us, we who have known how to honour
Brock and Brant, will also know how to, honour Tecumseh and LAURA
SECORD; the heroine as well as the heroes of our Province--of our common
Dominion--and will no longer delay to do it, lest Time should snatch the
happy opportunity from us.
S. A. C.
TORONTO, 4th August, 1887.
NOTE.--The headstone of Laura Secord is three feet high, and eighteen
inches 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, husband
of_ Laura Secord.
LIEUTENANT FITZGIBBON, _a British officer holding the post at_
Beaver Dams.
MAJOR DE HAREN, _a British officer lying at_ St. Catharines _with
his 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 104th
Regiments_.
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 the
wall_. 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 little
fellow of four, is seated on her lap holding a ball of yarn from which
she is knitting_. Charlotte, _a girl of twelve, is seated on a
stool set a little in rear of the couch; she has a lesson-book in her
hand_. 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 gloom
That belted in the gloomier woods, stole forth
Foreshortened forms of grosser shade, all barred
With lines of denser blackness, dexter-borne.
Rank after rank, they came, out of the dark,
So silently no pebble crunched beneath
Their 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 fixed
The section in advance fell on the camp,
And killed the first two sentries, whose sharp cries
Alarmed a third, who fired, and firing, fled.
This roused the guard, but "Forward!" was the word,
And on we rushed, slaying full many a man
Who woke not in this world.
The 'larum given,
A-sudden rose such hubbub and confusion
As is made by belching earthquake. Waked from sleep,
Men stumbled over men, and angry cries
Resounded. Surprised, yet blenching not,
Muskets were seized and shots at random fired
E'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 heaven
Falls sudden silent, and concentrates force
To 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 lines
And mowed us where we stood!
Full many a trembling hand that set a flint
Fell lifeless ere it clicked: _yet silent all_--
Save groans of wounded--till our rods struck home;
Then, flashing fire for fire, forward we rushed
And 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 took
Their guns, they fighting valiantly, but wild,
Having no rallying point, their leaders both
Lying 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 lack
His forage, and perforce must--eat his stores;
For Yeo holds the lake, and on the land
His range is scarce beyond his guns. And more,
He is the less by these of men to move
On salient points, and long as we hold firm
At 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 shunned
The sight of blood.
_Quaker_. None more than I.
Yet innate forces sometimes tell o'er use
Against our will. But this was how it happed:
Thou seest, Mistress Secord, I'd a load
Of sound potatoes, that I thought to take
To Vincent's camp, but on the way I met
A 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 price
Just 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 blow
To 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 need
A closer knowledge of the Yankee camp:
How strong it is, and how it lies. A brush
Is imminent, and one must win, you know
Shall they?"
His manner was so earnest that, before
I knew, I cried, "Not if I know it, man!"
With a bright smile he answered me, "There spoke
A Briton." Then he directed me
How 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 hap
That 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 week
Before 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 if
Whatever 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 once
I 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 brain
Beneath that Quaker hat.
_Quaker_ (_in some embarrassment, rising_).
No, no, I am a man of peace, and hate
The 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 amenities
Of 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 fight
In such brave times as these!
_Enter_ MARY, _a girl of fourteen_.
_Mary_. Were wishing aught
Soon 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 nook
That's not invaded, even one's books
Borrowed 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 pray
That 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 falls
With 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 memory
And 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 Secord
I'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 Flos
Ter put her bes' leg fus', fer I mus' go
An' ten' dat poo', sick hoss.
_Mrs. Secord_. Nay, you'll do nothing of the kind! You'll stay
And wait upon these men. I'll not have Flos
Left 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 live
Upon 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 come
An' 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 much
agitation_.
_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 tread
O'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 bear
The 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 need
All strength you may command to hear me tell.
[_Mr. Secord sits down, his wife by him_.
That saucy fellow, Winter, and a guard
Came and demanded supper; and, of course,
They had to get it. Pete and Flos I left
To wait on them, but soon they sent them off,
Their jugs supplied,--and fell a-talking, loud,
As in defiance, of some private plan
To 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 leaves
Fort George for Beaver Dam. Five hundred men,
With some dragoons, artillery, and a train
Of baggage-waggons, under Boerstler, go
To 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 prevail
Without 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 force
Along the lakes, with long odds in his favour.
And I, unhappy wretch, in such a strait
Am here, unfit for service. Thirty men
Are all Fitzgibbon has to guard the stores
And 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 unharmed
Where 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 suspect
A 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 wise
The sentries shall e'en put me on my way.
Once past the lines, the dove is not more swift
Nor sure to find her distant home than I
To reach Fitzgibbon. Say I may go.
_Mr. Secord_ (_putting his arm 'round her tenderly_).
How can I let thee go? Thy tender feet
Would bleed ere half the way was done. Thy strength
Would 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 hurt
By 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 word
To keep you back? and yet my risk was greater
Then than now--a woman left with children
On a frontier farm, where yelling savages,
Urged on, or led, by renegades, might burn,
And kill, and outrage with impunity
Under 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 word
Of parley, were you able; leaving me
The while in His good hands; not doubting once
But 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 realize
All 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 thyself
Thou shalt regard thy neighbour."
_Mr. Secord_. My neighbour! Then is that all that thou art
To 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_ love
Thyself, nor me, as thou _must_ love the Good.
Therefore, I am thy neighbour; loved as thyself:
And as thyself wouldst go to warn Fitzgibbon
If 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 be
My standard-bearer, and put to shame
The cohorts black anxiety calls up.
But how shall I explain to prying folks
Thine 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 surmise
Aroused by guilty conscience doubt thy aim.
_Mrs. Secord_. That's true.
Yet at this time of year do travellers start
Almost at dawn to avoid the midday heats.
Tell not the children whither I am bound;
Poor darlings! Soon enough anxiety
Will fall upon them; 'tis the heritage
Of all; high, low, rich, poor; he chiefly blest
Who 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 strength
On household duties, for thou'lt need it all
Ere 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 hours
Beside 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-morrow
Perforce of nature; and banish thus
Some hours of sad anxiety.]
_Mr. Secord_. I'd better watch.
_Mrs. Secord_. Well then, to please you! But call me on the turn
Of night, lest I should lose an hour or two
Of cooler travel.
* * * * *
SCENE 4--_Daybreak on the_ 23_rd June_, 1813.
_The porch of_ Mr. Secord's _farmhouse. A garden path, with a
gate that opens on to the high road from Newark to Twelve-Mile
Creek_.
_Enter_ JAMES SECORD _and his wife_.
_Mr. Secord_. Heaven speed thee, then, dear wife. I'll try to bear
The dreadful pangs of helplessness and dread
With calm demeanour, if a bursting heart.
_Mrs. Secord_. Then will you taste a woman's common lot
In times of strait, while I essay man's role
Of fierce activity. We will compare
When 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; a
the gate she stops as though the latch were troublesome, raises the
flowers to her lips, and makes a slight salute to her husband, who yet
stands within the porch watching her. She then rapidly pursues her way,
but soon encounters an American sentry, whom she essays to pass with a
nod and a smile: the man prevents her by bringing his musket to the
charge, 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 tears
Upon 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 in
The old folks' garden.
(Mrs. Secord _crosses the road, takes a rail out of the fence, which
she replaces after having passed into the clearing, and proceeds to the
barn, whence she brings an old pail, luckily left there, and approaches
the cow_.)
_Mrs. Secord_ (_aside_). Could I but get her out of sight, I'd drive
The creature round the other way, and go
My own. Pray Heaven the sentry watch me not
Too 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 pace
With 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 bought
Honour by arms, but often dire disgrace.
For so it is, as now I clearly see,
We let the animal within remain
Unbroke, till neither gyve nor gear will serve
To steady him, only a knock-down blow.
Had I, and others, too, within the ranks,
Haltered our coltish blood, we should have found
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 he.
It is a lesson may I learn
So as to ne'er forget, that in the heat of words
Sparks oft are struck that should be straightway quenched
In cool reflection; not enlarged and fed
With passionate tinder, till a flame is blown
That reaches past our bonds, and leaves behind
Black, sullen stumps where once the green trees grew.
If honour's what we want, there's room enough
For that, and wild adventure, too, in the West,
At half the cost of war, in opening up
A 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 more
My happy eyes rest on thy lowly roof,
If never more my ears drink in the sounds
Of sweeter music, in your loving tones,
My darlings, than e'er was drawn from harp
The best attuned, by wandering Aeolus,
Then let my memory, like some fond relic laid
In musk and lavender, softly exhale
A 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 a
few 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 save
My 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 George
Mosier, _and little_ Tom. Babette _is waiting at table_.
_Widow_. 'Tis pitiful to see one's land go waste
For want of labour, and the summer days,
So rich in blessing, spend their fruitful force
On barren furrows. And then to think
That over both the Provinces it is the same,--
No men to till the land, because the war
Needs every one. God knows how we shall feed
Next year: small crop, small grist,--a double loss
To me. The times are anxious.
(_To Sergeant Mosier_.) Have you news?
_Sergeant_. Not much, ma'am, all is pretty quiet still
Since 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 spires
Would 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 sex
Humanity.
_Babette_. Madame?
_Widow_. You do not understand me, not; but you
Were very brave and noble-hearted when
You faced the wolf that scented the young lambs.
_Babette_. _Brave! moi!_ Madame is kind to say it so.
But bravery of women--what is that
To bravery of man?
_Tom_. An' that's just what I said to Hatty, mother,
When she declared that Aunty Laura was
As brave as soldiers, 'cause she went an' fetched
Poor 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-first
Sheaffe led the attack, poor Captain Secord dropped,
Shot, leg and shoulder, and bleeding there he lay,
With numbers more, when evening fell; for means
Were small to deal with wounded men, and all,
Soldiers and citizens, were spent and worn
With cruel trials. So when she learned he lay
Among the wounded, his young wife took up
A lantern in her hand, and searched the field--
Whence sobs and groans and cries rose up to heaven
And paled the tearful stars--until she found
The 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 hate
Had 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'er
The 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 love
To the long task of nursing back to health
Her husband, much exhaust through loss of blood,
and all the angry heat of gunshot wounds.
But James will never be himself again
Despite her care.
_Sergeant_. 'Twas well and bravely done.
Yet oft I think the women of these days
Degenerate to those I knew in youth.
_Widow_. You're hasty, Sergeant, already hath this war
Shown many a young and delicate woman
A very hero for--her hero's sake;
Nay, more, for others'. She, our neighbour there
At 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 blood
Ran thick and strong as e'er in times gone by?
O Canada, thy soil is broadcast strown
With noble deeds: a plague on him, I say,
Who follows with worse seed!
(_She rises and prepares for making pies_. Babette _clears off the
table, and_ Sergeant George _smokes his pipe, sitting close to the
open chimney, now filled with fresh branches of spruce and cedar_.)
_Sergeant_. Well, mistress, p'rhaps you're right; old folks aye think
Old times the best; but now your words recall
The 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 withal
She 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 joined
To 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 rough
As tried the strength of men, to nurse him.
Recovered; next he fought Ticonderoga,
And there was badly wounded. Lake Champlain
She traversed to his aid in just a batteau.
No sooner was he better, than again
He joined his men, always the first to move,
And so alert their situation was,
That all slept in their clothes. In such a time
The 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 rush
In search of her--a shuddering sight to one
Loving and loved so well. But luckily,
Both then were saved. She also shared the march
That followed up the foe, action impending
At every step; and when the fight began,
Though sheltered somewhat, heard all the din,
The roar of guns, and bursting shells, and saw
The hellish fire belch forth, knowing the while
Her husband foremost in the dreadful fray.
Nay, more; her hut was all the shelter given
To dress the wounded first; so her kind eyes
Were 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 Burgoyne
At Saratoga lost the bloody day,
The Major came not back--a prisoner he,
And desperate wounded. After anxiety
So stringent and prolonged, it seemed too much
To hope the lady could support such sting
And depth of woe, yet drooped she not; but rose
And 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 her
The 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 cup
Of grateful wine to offer. He knew
Her danger, too, as she did,--that she might fall
In cruel hands; or, in the dead of night
Approaching 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 Brudenell
For 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 stirred
Before the break of day. Poor lady! Sad
Were her forebodings through those darksome hours,
And wearily her soft maternal frame
Bore such great strain. But as the dark
Grows thickest ere the light appears, so she
Found better treatment when the morning broke.
With manly courtesy, proud Gates allowed
Her wifely claim, and gave her all she asked.
_Widow_. Could he do less! Yes, Sergeant, I'll allow
Old times show tender women bold and brave
For those they love, and 'twill be ever so.
And yet I hold that woman braver still
Who sacrifices all she loves to serve
The public weal.
_Sergeant_. And was there ever one?
_Widow_. Oh, yes--
_Enter_ MRS. SECORD.
Why, Laura! Now you're just too late
To 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 done
By 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 friend
You'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 fast
Within 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 fear
My ultimate success. 'Tis not to see
Poor Charles I came, but to go further on
To Beaver Dam, and warn Fitzgibbon there
Of a foul plot to take him by surprise
This 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 miles
On 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 report
I 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 exists
Of any kind to guide your feet. A man
Could scarce get through, how then shall you?
_Mrs. Secord_. I have a Guide in Heaven. This task is come
To me without my seeking. If no word
Reaches Fitzgibbon ere that murderous horde
Be on him, how shall he save himself?
And if defeat he meets, then farewell all
Our 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 watch
Against surprise. Think of your little girls,
Should they be left without a mother's care;
Your duty is to them, and surely not
In tasks like this. You go to risk your life.
As if you had a right, and thereby leave
Those who to you owe theirs, unpitied,
Desolate. You've suffered now enough
With all you've lost, and James a cripple, too,
What will the children do should they lose you
Just when their youthful charms require your care?
They'll blame you, Laura, when they're old enough
To 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 sacrifice
Entailed.
_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 undergo
A 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 those
Would 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 care
That left a little band of thirty men
A 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 say
My real errand, 'twould excite him so.
[_Exit_ MRS. SECORD.
_Widow_. Poor Laura! Would to God I knew some way
To 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 lads
From round about, with every match-lock, gun,
Or fowling-piece the lads could find, and drills
Them 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 the
driving shed: here are assembled some twenty lads of all ages and
heights, between six and sixteen. They carry all sorts of old firelocks
and are "falling in." They are properly sized, and form a "squad with
intervals." In the rear stands a mash-tub with a sheepskin stretched
over it for a drum, and near it is the drummer-boy, a child of six; a
bugle, a cornet and a bassoon are laid in a corner, and two or three
boys 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 your
dressing. Steps like those would leave some of you half behind
on a long march. Right about face--two--three. That's better.
Slow--march. (_They march_.) Squad--halt. (_They all bring
up into line_.) That's better. No hangers back with foe in
front. Left about face--two--three. Keep up your heads.
By the right--dress. Stand easy. Fall in, the band. We'll try
the music.
(_The band falls in, three little fellows have fifes, two elder ones
flutes, one a flageolet; the owners of the cornet, bugle and bassoon
take up their instruments, and a short, stout fellow has a
trombone_.)
_Sergeant George (to the band)_. Now show your loyalty, "The
King! God bless him."
[_They play, the squad saluting_.
_Sergeant George_ (_to band_.) That's very well, but mind
your time. (_To the squad_.) Now you shall march to music. (_To
the band_.) Boys, play--"The Duke of York's March." (_To
the 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 (_he
takes a flageolet)_. Quick--march.
(_Plays Yankee Doodle with equal cleverness and spite, travestying
both phrase and expression in a most ludicrous manner until the boys
find it impossible to march for laughter; the Sergeant is evidently
delighted 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 deeds
With 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 out
When 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 endure
A short injustice, than belie his blood
By 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, "Britannia
Rules 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, singing
the chorus with much vigour and emphasis. Mrs. Secord betrays much
emotion, and when the tune is begun for the third verse, she hastily
closes 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 bite
Of 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 keg
I 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 longs
To see her lads, e'en if she willing sends
Them all to serve the King. I don't forget him
Morning 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 way
To 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 indeed
When 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 down
To a small creek, cross that, and keep the sun
Behind you half a mile, and then you strike
The bush, uncleared and wild. Good God, to think--
_Mrs. Secord_. Think not, but pray, and if a chance occurs
Send aid to poor Fitzgibbon. Little help
Just in the nick of time oft turns the scale
Of 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, she
seats 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 rood
More than a crow-line measures; ups and downs
Absorb so many steps that nothing add
To distance. Faint am I, too, and thirsty.
Hist! hist! ye playful breezes that do make
Melodious symphonies and rippling runs
Among the pines and aspens, hear I not
A little tinkling rill, that somewhere hides
Its sweet beneficence 'mid ferns and moss?
[_She rises and looks about_.
Ay, here it is: a tiny brilliancy
That glances at the light, as careful, still,
To keep the pure translucency that first
It 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 hearts
That thread the humblest haunts of suffering earth
With Christ-like charities, and keep their souls
Pure 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 celebrate
The nuptials of the year: and for her gift,
Fair Flora, lightly loitering on the wing
Of Zephyrus, tossed all her corbel out,
Filling the air with bloom.
From yonder copse,
With kindling eye and hasty step, emerged
The gladsome Spring, with leafy honours crowned,
His following a troop of skipping lambs:
And o'er yon hill, blushing for joy, approached
His 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 gems
Of dielytra, topaz-tipped and gold,
Fragrant arbutus, and hepatica,
With thousands more. Her wreath, a coronet
Of opening rose-buds twined with lady-fern;
And over all, her bridal-veil of white,--
Some soft diaph'nous cloudlet, that mistook
Her robes of blue for heaven.--
And I could dream
That, from his lofty throne beholding,
Great Sol, on wings of glowing eve, came down
In gracious haste, to bless the nuptials.
(_She pauses_.) And shall this land,
That breathes of poesy from every sod,
Indignant throb beneath the heavy foot
Of jeering renegade? at best a son
His mother blushes for--shall he, bold rebel
Entwine its glories in defiant wreath
Above his boastful brow, and flaunt it in
Her face, rejoicing in her woe? No! No!
This priceless gem shall ever deck her crown,
And grace its setting with a ray more pure
For that, nor flood, nor fire, can flaw its heart.
Yes, Canada, thy sons, at least, maintain
The ancient honour of their British blood,
In that their loyalty contracts no stain
From proffered gifts or gold.
But I must on. I may not loiter, while
So much depends on me.
(_She rises to proceed, and at the first step a rattlesnake rears up
at her, hissing and springing its rattles. She recoils in fear, but
remembering 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 name
Of SNAKE!
[_Exit_ MRS. SECORD.
* * * * *
SCENE 3--_A thick wood through which runs a forest path, leading to a
high 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 in
The rosy dawn with bursts of melody,
And swells the joyful train that waits upon
The footsteps of the sun, is silent now,
Dismissed to greenwood bowers. Save happy cheep
Of callow nestling, that closer snugs beneath
The soft and sheltering wing of doting love,--Like
croon of sleeping babe on mother's breast--No
sound is heard, but, peaceful, all enjoy
Their 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 foe
Glides from his hole, and threads the darkling route,
In hope to coil and crush him.
Ah, little recks he that a woman holds
The 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 rays
Enfolds 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-time
To that grand music that I heard to-day,
Though children played it, and I darkly feel
Its burden is resistance physical.
'Tis strange that simple tones should move one so!
What is it, what, this sound, this air, this breath
The wind can blow away,
Nor most intricate fetters can enchain?
What component of being doth it touch
That it can raise the soul to ecstasy,
Or plunge it in the lowest depth of horror?
Freeze the stopt blood, or send it flowing on
In pleasant waves?
Can draw soft tears, or concentrate them hard
To form a base whereon the martyr stands
To take his leap to Heaven?
What is this sound that, in Niagara's roar
Brings 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 on
To victory or death;
Or bids it, peaceful, rest, and grow, and build?
That reassures the frighted babe; or starts
The 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 touch
Is not a sense to man peculiar,
An independent string formed by that breath
That, breathed into the image corporate,
Made man a living soul.
No, for all animate nature owns
Its sovereign power. Brutes, birds, fish, reptiles, all
That breathe, are awed or won by means of sound.
Therefore, it must be of the corporate, corporeal
And, if so, _why then the body lives again_,
Despite what sceptics say; for sound it is
Will summon us before that final bar
To 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 difficulty
That He, who from primordial atoms formed
A human frame, can from the dust awake it
Once again, marshal the scattered molecules
And make immortal, as was Adam.
This body lives! Or else no deep delight
Of quiring angels harping golden strings;
No voice of Him who calls His children home;
No glorious joining in the immortal song
Could 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 needs
A truer Heaven.
O might I rest even now!
These feet grow painful, and the shadows tell
Of night and dark approaching, my goal
An 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 bloom
Hides many a thorn that will dispute my path
Beneath those ancient beeches.
(_She seats herself, and having removed her bonnet, partakes of the
refreshment brought from the mill. As she eats, a grieved look comes
upon 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 round
The 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 lay
My, weary head as oft upon thy breast!--
But no (_she rises_), I dare not think--there is above
A 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 root
Stands like a wattled pier from which the bridge
Springs all abrupt and strait, and hangs withal
So high that hardihood itself looks blank--
I scarce may tempt, worn as I am, and spent.
And on the other bank, the great green head
Presents a wilderness of tangled boughs
By which would be a task, indeed, to reach
The ground. Yet must I try. Poor hands, poor feet,
This is rough work for you, and one small slip
Would 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 above
Is yet to gain before the sun gets low.
(_She climbs the hemlock root and reaches the trunk, across which she
crawls on her hands and knees, and at last finds herself some yards up
the beech ridge. After arranging her torn and dishevelled clothing she
proceeds up the ridge, at the top of which she encounters a British
sentry, 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 is
To Beaver Dam to see Fitzgibbon,
And warn him of a sortie from Fort George
To move to-night. Five hundred men, with guns,
And baggage-waggons for the spoil, are sent.
For, with such force, the enemy is sure
Our stores are theirs; and Stoney Creek avenged.
_Sentry_. Madam, how know you this?
_Mrs. Secord_. I overheard
Some Yankee soldiers, passing in and out
With all a victor's license of our hearths,
Talk of it yesternight, and in such wise
No room for doubt remained. My husband wished
To bear the news himself, but is disabled yet
By 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 home
At daybreak, and have walked through the deep woods
The 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 yours
Deserves 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 choose
Their ground themselves, but they are friends, though rough,--
Some of Kerr's band, Brant's son-in-law. You'll need
To 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 cause
With 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 rays
illuminate 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-flies
flit 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 on
Moody imaginings, the body shrinks as'twere,
And all the being sinks into a sea
Of deariness and doubt and death.
[_The call of the death-bird is heard_.
Thou little owl, that with despairing note
Dost haunt these shades, art thou a spirit lost,
Whose punishment it is to fright poor souls
With fear of death?--if death is to be feared,
And not a blank hereafter. The poor brave
Who answers thee and hears no call respond,
Trembles and pales, and wastes away and dies
Within the year, thee making his fell arbiter.
Poor Indian! Much I fear the very dread
Engendered 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 death
We 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 ears
With 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 tongue
More precious than were each bright drop a gem
From far Golconda's mine; how at thy touch
The parting life comes back, and hope returns
To cheer my drooping heart!
(_She trips and falls, and instantly the Indian war-whoop resounds
close at hand, and numbers of braves seem to spring from the ground, one
of 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 you
And all who love King George and wear his badge.
All through this day I've walked the lonely woods
To do you service. I have news, great news,
To tell the officer at Beaver Dam.
This very night the Long Knives leave Fort George
To take him by surprise, in numbers more
Than 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 you
Mishe-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 braves
Want 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 dark
To 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. The
parlour, with folding doors which now stand a little apart. A sentry is
visible, on the other side of them. The parlour windows are barricaded
within, but are set open, and a branch of a climbing rose with flowers
upon it, swings in. The sun is setting, and gilds the arms that are
piled in one corner of the room. A sword in its scabbard lies across the
table, near which, in an arm-chair, reclines_ Lieutenant Fitzgibbon,
_a tall man of fine presence; in his right hand, which rests
negligently on the back of the chair, he holds a newspaper of four
pages, "The Times," from which he has been reading. Several elderly
weather-beaten non-commissioned officers and privates, belonging to the
49th, 104th, and 8th regiments, together with a few militiamen and two
cadets share the society of their superior officer, and all are very
much at their ease both in appointments and manner, belts and stocks are
unloosed, and some of the men are smoking_.
_Lieut. Fitzgibbon_. 'Tis true, it seems, and yet most horrible;
More than five hundred thousand fighting men
Crossed with him o'er the front, and not a tenth
Remains. Rather than let him find a place
For winter quarters, two hundred thousand
Happy families had to forsake their homes
In dead of winter, and of the ancient seat
Of 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 toes
And 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 Czar
Will 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 was
Nine 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 refused
To pay the taxes, just three munth's arter;
An' that wur bonnie toime, fur then t'coaach
Tuk 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 steam
Against the wind and tide, and talks with hope
Of making speed equal to both.
He's tried it on the Clyde, so we may look
For 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 neist
They scatterbrain 'ull mayhap send a shep
Jest whear tha' loike wi'oot a win' at all.
Or promise till 't. 'Twere pity Nelson, noo,
He'd noan o' sech at Copenhaagen
Mebbe tha' cu'd ha' gott tha' grunded sheps
Afloat, 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 man
Never 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 held
The squadron at command. Up comes the word,
"The signal Thirty-nine is out, sir." Nelson turns,
His stump a-goin' as his arm was used
Afore 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 glass
And 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 man
With 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 inches
Nobly enlarged to full, fair, Saxon mould,
And vested in the blazonments of rule,
Shewed not so kingly to the obeisant sight
As was his soul. Who than ye better knew
His bravery; his lofty heroism;
His purity, and great unselfish heart?
Nature in him betrayed no niggard touch
Of corporate or ethereal. Yet I yield
That men of lesser mould in outward form
Have been as great in deeds of rich renown.
But then, I take it, greatness lies not in
The flesh, but in the spirit. He is great
Who from the quick occasion of the time
Strikes out a name. And he is also great
Who, 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 blow
That rings around the world; the other draws
The world round him--his mighty throes
And well-contested standpoints win its praise
And 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 thews
And training, and so decides: while the loud shock
Of unexpected prowess starts him aghast,
And from his careless hand snatches the proud award.
But mark me, men, he who is ever great
Has greatness made his aim--
The sudden blow or long-protracted strife
Yields 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 while
His 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 notoriety
Misleads 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 to
the sergeants)_. There, read to the rest, and let me have them
back 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; homespun
And 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 bound
You'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 stroke
Of 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 his
fists.)
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 see
Has 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, she
Come 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 space
Around his works, he therefore purposes
To 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 authority
To 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 received
The 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 hence
By victor's right our home is free to them.
Last night a sergeant and his new-changed guard
Came in and asked for supper; a boy and girl
I left to wait on them, seeing the table set
With all supplies myself, and then retired.
But such their confidence; their talk so loud
And free, I could not help but hear some words
That raised suspicion; then I listened close
And heard, 'mid gibe and jest, the enterprise
That was to flout us; make the Loyalist
A cringing slave to sneering rebels; make
The British lion gnash his teeth with rage;--
The Yankee, hand-on-hip, guffawing loud
The while. At once, my British blood was up,
Nor had I borne their hated presence more,
But for the deeper cause. My husband judged
As I did, but his helpless frame forbade
His 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 more
Than woman's fitting means. I am not schooled
In courtly phrases, yet may I undertake
To thank you heartily, not on our part
Alone, but in our good King George's name,
For act so kind achieved. Knew he your care
For 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 terms
Than I, his humble servant. Affliction
Leaves 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 beg
Let me not interrupt your movements now:
I would not be an obstacle across
The 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 here
Has walked from Queenston, through the woods, this day,
To warn me that a sortie from Fort George
Is sent to take this post, and starts e'en now.
You, Cummings, mount--you know the way--and ride
With all your might, to tell De Haren this;
He lies at Twelve-Mile Creek with larger force
Than mine, and will move up to my support:
He'll see my handful cannot keep at bay
Five 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 fly
Like dart of Annee-meekee.
We keep dam Long-Knife back. I go just now.
_Fitzgibbon (handing the chief a twist of tobacco, which he puts
into his girdle with a grunt of satisfaction)_. A Mohawk is my
friend, and you are one.
[FITZGIBBON _shakes hands with the_ Chief, _who retires well pleased_.
(_To Mrs. Secord_.) Madam, how may I serve you to secure
Your safety? Refreshment comes; but here
Is no protection in our present strait.
_Mrs. Secord_. I thank you, sir, but will not tax you more
Than some refreshment. I have friends beyond
A 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 from
a buffet, and_ Mr. Jarvis _unloosens her bonnet and collar. They
bathe 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 time
We've swung a faintin' comrade 'twixt us two;
An' her's just like a babby. Fatch a pole
An' 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 wuth
To 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 you
The 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 touch
That 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 move
With 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 it
by_ LIEUT. FITZGIBBON, _who wraps a blanket round her. The men fall
into line, and salute as she passes. At the door she offers her hand
to_ 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 not
Show our respect for one has done so much
For 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 approbation
Of a most gentle deed. I pray they light
You 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, and
are awaiting orders_). Men, never forget this woman's noble deed.
Armed, and in company, inspirited
By crash of martial music, soldiers march
To duty; but she, alone, defenceless,
With no support but kind humanity
And burning patriotism, ran all our risks
Of 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 sprung
To 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 tavern
and 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 glad
To 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 force
In open field. But Boerstler's lost his head:
Deluded by our calls, your fierce attack,
And Indian fighting--which to them has ghosts
Of their own raising--scalps, treachery, what not.
There is our chance: I mean to summon him
To a surrender.
_Clarke (in great surprise)_. Sir!
_Fitzgibbon_. 'Tis a bold stroke, I grant, and if it fail
Why then I'll fight it out. Keep up the scare
Some 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 "Cease
firing;" 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 reinforcements
Larger still. Indians, our good allies,
Swarm in the woods around; and in your rear
A strong militia force awaits my orders:
Therefore, sir, to save a useless loss
Of brave men's lives, I offer you fair terms
Of 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 say
That, seeing fate and fortune both unite
To mar success, he'll rather save his men
By fair surrender, than waste their lives
In useless struggle. He commissions me
To act in drawing up the terms.
I am McDowell, captain of a troop.
_Fitzgibbon_ (_bowing)_. Your humble servant, sir. We'll try to please
Your colonel; rejoicing we have met a foe
Who 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 writing
materials; 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 caught
Five hundred enemy? A very elephant!
_Fitzgibbon_. A strait like mine required some strategy.
_De Haren_. My dear, brave fellow, you have surely won
The golden epaulettes! How glad I am
I 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 such
A 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 lyre
To 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 bay
The 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 fall
Because 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 shake
At sight of wolf or catamount,
Or many-rattled snake:
"Thou go!" "Nay, smile not, I will go;
Fitzgibbon shall not fall
Unwarned 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 ruth
That 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 swung
The 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 laid
Upon 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 undulate
In the weird light, like living lines
That swell with boding hate.
For she has left the tangled woods,
And keeps the open plain
Where 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 band
Such shelter as the soldier asks
Whose life hangs on his brand--
A steady mile or so, and then--
Ah, what is't rends the air
With 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 toast
To 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 day
When, 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, enfolds
In 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 see
An 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 thing
That, 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 been
In 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 bells
Ring 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 revealed
To 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 began
Saw 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 warning
Of 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 scorning
Of 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 distance
That 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 thunder
That 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 sharing
Shall, 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 duty
His 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 reverberations
Of 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 listens
To 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 caring
Save 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 warning
Of 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 places
To 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, astounded
At 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 now
Their ashes rest beneath memorial pile.
And while those names, BROCK and MACDONELL, wake
A throb of emulative gratitude
And 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 join
Their ancient comrades of the hard-won fight,
Glad their brave hearts with one applauding cheer
In memory of the day. Comfort their age
With 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 silk
That 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 laid
All 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 oaks
And, 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 flag
Flies flaunting in the wind, mocking the gun.
Dark forms pour o'er the heights, and Britain's day
Broods dark.
But hark! a ringing cheer peals up the height
Once 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, on
The "Tigers" come. Down pours the rattling shot
From 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 comes
In 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 thoughts
That filled my breast burned up the welling tears
Ere they had chance to flow, and forward Hate
Spake rashly. But calm Reflection
Laid her cool hand upon my throbbing brow
And whispered, "As up the misty stream
The _Norseman_ crept to-day, and signals white
Waved 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 elements
Worked freely. A man of dignity;
On whom the robes and badge of state sat well
Because 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 place
Before the deadly piece, as who should say
"'Ware ye! these people are my people; such
Their inward heat and mine at this poor deed
That 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 stood
An offering and a hostage; on that scroll
Old Chronos doth unfold along the years
Are writ in gold names of undaunted Mayors,
Pepin and Charlemagne, and Whittington
And 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 feed
Without 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 joins
The Past and Future--thy one hand waving
Farewell to Summer, whose fond kiss hath set
Thy yellow cheeks aglow, the other stretched
To greet advancing Winter!
Nor can thy veil, tissue diaphanous
Of crimsoned haze, conceal thy lustrous eyes;--
Those eyes in whose dark depths a tear-drop lurks
Ready to fall, for Beauty loved and lost.
From thy point gazing, maiden, let us, too,
Once more behold the panorama fair
Of the lost year. See where, far down yon slope
That 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 choose
A happy resting-place; and singing rills
Dwell on his praise. Gladly his laughing eyes
Rest on fair Summer's zone set thick with flowers,
That chide their own profusion as, tiptoe,
And arm outstretched, she reaches to restore
The 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 plain
Where now the swarthy Autumn, girded close,
Gathers his yellow sheaves and juicy fruit
To overflowing garners; measure full,
And blest to grateful souls. Through the low air
A myriad wings circle in restless sort;
And from the rustling woods there comes a sound
Of dropping nuts and acorns--welcome store
To little chipmunk and to squirrel blithe:
Dependants small on Nature's wide largesse.
How doth the enchanting picture fill our souls
With faith! Sweet Indian maid, we turn with thee
And greet gray Winter with a trustful smile.
IN JUNE.
I cannot sleep, and morning's earliest light,
All soft and rosy, tempts my restlessness
To ask from Nature what of peace she gives.
I gaze abroad, and all my soul is moved
At that strange calm that floats o'er earth at rest.
The silver sickle of the summer moon
Hangs on the purple east. The morning star,
Like a late watcher's lamp, pales in the dawn.
Yonder, the lake, that 'neath the midday sun
All restless glows and burns like burnished shield,
Lies as a child at rest with curtain drawn.
The forest trees are still. The babbling creek
Flows softly through the copse and glides away;
And the fair flowers, that lie as thick and sweet
As 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 hours
Through all the sultry day, keep yet the hive.
And, save the swallow, whose long line of works
Beneath each gable, points to labours vast,
No bird yet stirs. Upon the dewy mead
The 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 millions
From out the greedy clutch of Egypt's despot;
So hast thou done for Afric's toiling sons:
Hast snatched its peoples from the poisonous fangs
Of hissing Satan, veiled in commerce foul.
For this thy fame shall ring; for this thy praise
Shall 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 groans
Wrung from thy patient soul by obstacle,
The work of peevish man; these were the checks
From 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 eyes
And showed him all a leper, foul, accursed.
_He_ touched thy lips, and every word of thine
Vibrates on chords whose deep electric thrill
Shall 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 WOUNDED
SOLDIERS 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 hands
In 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 fill
The 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 men
Has 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 clasp
Their thin worn hands in ours, and smile our thanks,
And speak our praise of them, and heal their wounds
With gentlest care, each, for himself, if so
We 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 boast
Can 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 wave
May threat to overwhelm.
The love of Jesus,--
Sweet, having this thou risest far above
All this world's clouds, and catchest glimpse of Heaven.
Did He who blest
That infant band that crowded round His knee,
See, in a face like thine, a tender memory
Of 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 heart
Went out in fondest tones: His soft embrace
Encircling such as thou, thrilled out that love
That vibrates yet, and still enfolds so warm
His 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 pride
Of 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 watched
His boat that lay so still and stately, till
Automaton she seemed, and that she moved
To where she willed of her own force and law.
But I knew better: _his_ was the will
That set the pretty sprite a-going.
His arms controlled her to obedience:
Those arms that lately clasped me.
No alarms
Chilled my fond heart, nor dimmed my vision.
As I saw the fair white messenger move off
On fleecy puffs of cloud into the blue;
My nearest thought to trim my hearth, and make,
A dainty dish would please my darling's taste
On his return. And all day long, and through
The dreamy summer day, my thoughts were full
Of many a gay return; my ears reheard
The 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 sung
In other days, and with the manly tones
Had 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 wind
That scurried round our cot.
I slept: and waked
What time the summer storm, that rose and fell
In sullen gusts, flew by; and slept again,
And dreamed a glad return. When morning broke
A glorious day begun. The storm was gone:
The sparkling waves toyed with the lilting breeze;
The merry sun shone bright; and all the blue
Was 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 I
Welcome his step, hear his glad voice, and kiss
His laughing lips. I may not even clasp
His 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 depths
That chafe and fret, and roll him to and fro
Like a stray log:--he, whose dear limbs should lie
Peaceful and soft, in rev'rent care bestowed.--
Or in the sunken boat, gulfed at his work,
I see his blackened corse, even in death
Faithful 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 Death
By 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 eyes
Scan all the blue expanse, where not a cloud
Floats low to rest our vision. In vain we turn
Or East or West, no vap'rous haze, nor view
Of distant panorama, wins our souls
To 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 leaves
Of yellow dog's tooth vie with curly fronds
Of 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 grass
Grows 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 note
From off the ridge cap, but can find no spot
Fit for his nest. The red-breast on the fence
Explores the pasture with his piercing eye,
And visits oft the bushes by the stream,
But takes no mate. For why? No leaves or tuft
Are there to hide a home. Oh what is earth
Without 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 nook
Where he has hidden her, he mounts the wires,
Or garden fence, and sings a happy song
Of home, and other days. A-missing thee
The husbandman goes forth with faltering step
And dull sad eye; his sweltering team pulls hard
The lab'ring plough, but the dry earth falls back
As dead, and gives nor fragrant fume, nor clogs
The plough-boy's feet with rich encumb'ring mould.
The willows have a little tender green.
And swallows cross the creek--the gurgling creek
Now fallen to pools--but, disappointed,
Dart away so swift, and fly so high
We scarce can follow them. Thus all the land
Doth 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 trees
Put on their bridal wreaths, and veil their charms
From the too ardent sun, beneath thy gift
Of soft diaphanous tissue, pure and white
As angel's raiment. Little wood children
Deck all the path with flowers. The teeming earth
Offers rich gifts. The little choristers
Sing ceaseless hymns, and the glad husbandman
Adds his diapason. Bright fountains wake
And mingle with the swift roulade of streams.
The earth is full of music! Thou dost swing
Thy fragrant censer high, and dwellers in
The dusty city raise their toil-worn heads
From 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 become
Like that Great Heart, whose almoner art thou.
REMONSTRANCE WITH "REMONSTRANCE."
(IN "CANADIAN MONTHLY," APRIL, 1874.)
Why now, sweet Alice, though thy numbers ring
Like silver bells, methinks their burden wrong.
For if 'tis right, then were the hermits right,
And all recluses. And He was wrong
Who gave to Adam, Eve: and leaned upon
The breast of John the loved. So was He wrong
To 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 failed
And God forsook, He still was wrong to think
With tenderest solicitude and care
Upon his mother, and leave her in the charge
Of John. And He was wrong who gave us hearts
To yearn, and sensibilities to meet
Those "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 bond
Of 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 wide
In hopeless wrack. Well for us it is
That when our nature, hurt, falls, shrieking, down,
The Great Physician's hand may raise it up
And bind the wound. But what mad folly 'twere
Did we, like peevish child, beat down the hand,
And tear afresh the wound. And this we do
When 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 cares
For weak Humanity, and, knowing what woe
Our 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 fain
The 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 sound
Announces fun and frolic round.
Here's comic Alan's wit wants sport;
And dark-eyed Bessie's quick retort
Is spent on Nellie, mild and sweet;
And dulness reigns along the street.
The table's lessened numbers bring
No 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 miss
The 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 school
We 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 scan
The 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 trill
Proclaim his wondrous climbing skill.
The bird; the beast; the insect; all
In 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 store
Of joys for days when youth is o'er.
Our glowing limbs we love to lave
Beneath the lake's translucent wave,
Or on its heaving bosom ride
In merry boat; or skilful guide
The light canoe, with balanced oar,
To yonder islet's pebbly shore.
Sometimes, with rod and line, we try
The bass's appetite for fly;
Well pleased if plunge or sudden dart
Try all our piscatorial art;
And shout with joy to see our catch
Prove bigger than we thought our match.
Oft when the ardent sun at noon
Proclaims his power, we hide full soon
Within the cool of shady grove,
Or, gathering berries slowly rove
And often when the sun goes down,
We muse of home, and you in town;
And had we but a carrier dove
We'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 said
As 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 Scugog
merchant. 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 fall
And light on ours? We may matriculate,
And graduate--if we can, but he excludes
Us from the beaten path he takes himself.
The sun-lit heights of steep Parnassus
Reach past the clouds, and we below must stay;
Not that our alpen-stocks are weak, or that
Our breath comes short, but that, forsooth, we wear
The Petticoat. Out on such trash!
_Enter_ MR. BLOGGS.
_Mr. Bloggs_. Why, what's the matter, Kate?
_Kate_. Not much, papa, only I am refused
Admission to the college. _Sapient_ says
The Council have considered my request,
And find it inconsistent with the rules
Of discipline and order to admit
Women within their walls.
_Mr. B_. I thought they'd say so. Now be satisfied;
You've studied hard. Have made your mark upon
The honour list. Have passed your second year.
Let that suffice. You know enough to wed,
And Gilmour there would give his very head
To have you. Get married, Kate.
_Kate_. Papa, you vex me; Gilmour has no chance
And that I'll let him know. Nor have I spent
My 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 care
And worry of a lot of lively girls
For all I'm worth.
[_He kisses her_.
_Kate_. P'raps not, papa. But yet I mean to have
The prize I emulate.
If I obtain
The honours hung so tantalizingly
Before us by the University,
Will you defray the cost, as hitherto
You'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 me
As 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 to
share 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 always
said that women do not need so much education as men, and ought to keep
themselves _to_ themselves, and not put themselves forward like
impudent minxes? What'll men think of you if you go sittin' down on the
same 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 same
books? And what must the professors think women are comin' to when they
want to learn mathyphysics and metamatics and classical history, and
such stuff as unfits a woman for her place, and makes her as ignorant of
household work, managin' servants, bringin' up children, and such like,
as the greenhorns that some people take from the emigrant sheds, though
I wouldn't be bothered with such ignoramuses, spoilin' the knives, and
burnin' 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 woman
is, the better she can fulfil her home duties, especially in the care
and management of the health of her family, and the proper training of
her sons and daughters as good citizens.
_Mrs. Bloggs_. You put me out of all patience, Kate! For
goodness' sake get married and be done with it. And that reminds
me that Harry Gilmour wants you to go to the picnic with him on
Dominion Day, and to the concert at the Gardens at night; and he
said you had snubbed him so at Mrs. Gale's that he didn't like to
speak about it to you without I thought he might. Now, that's what
I 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 the
money 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 senator
some day, and you treat him as if he was quite beneath you. I do hope
you'll just show a little common sense and accept his invitations.
_Kate_. Well, mamma, I think the real shame, as you call it, is
that you, and other ladies, will allow your daughters to go, about to
picnics, parties, balls, theatres or anywhere else, with any man who
happens to ask them, and without even so much as a girl-companion, and
yet you see nothing but impropriety in my desire to attend college,
where all the opportunity of associating with the other sex is limited
to a few lectures delivered by grave and reverend Professors, under
conditions of strict discipline, and at which the whole attention of
the students must necessarily be concentrated on the subject. As for
unlimited opportunities for flirting, there are none; and the
necessities of college life compel each student to attend to his duties
while within the halls, and then go home; wherever that may be.
_Mrs. Bloggs_. It's no use talking, Kate, you won't alter my
opinion. If they'd build another college specially for ladies, as I
hear the Council is willin' to do, and put it under charge of a lady
who would look after the girls, I wouldn't object so much, though, as
I always say, I don't see the need of so much learnin' for women.
_Kate_. Well, mamma, how much would be gained by a separate
building? The Council, it is true, offer a piece of ground, within a
few minutes walk of the college, for a ladies' college, and promise
to deliver lectures specially "altered to suit the female capacity."
But if there was an intention of giddiness and flirtation on the part
of the lady students, how much hindrance do you think the separate
college would be? And if we can't understand the same lectures as our
brothers, it is evident we can't understand the same books. Rather a
hard 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 me
With 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 ways
Unknown, through lonely streets, into dark haunts!--
Will make me tremble if a child observes
Me 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 charge
Its 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 cultivate
An Abernethian, self-assertive style,
That men may think there is a deal more in
My 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 brown
Must all be shorn. Like to Godiva fair,
Whose heart, so true, forgot itself, to serve
Her suffering kind; I, too, must make
My 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 bestowed
That I so fondly covet. To think that they
Enjoy the rights I ask, and have received
The Cambridge University degree, B.A.
Not only wear the gown and cap
As college students, but the hood. The hood!
And shall Macaulay's proud New Zealander
Thus 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 slats
As 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 style
A trifle jaunty, and a hard stiff crown;
So if my hair prove not too trying
I 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 mamma
Thinks I'm an awful girl.
If she but knew--
Yet might I plead that men and women oft
Have done the same before; poor Joan of Arc;
Portia; and Rosalind. And I have heard
That 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 words
And 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 so
You'll make it easier for me to obtain
By surreptitious means, the rights I should
Enjoy in happier sort.
_Nurse_. I'll do my best, Miss Kate.
[_Exit_ Nurse.
_Kate (in masculine attire, about to descend to the breakfast
table, turns once more to the mirror)_. Oh, Harberton,
Hadst thou but taught the world
The beauty of thy new divided skirt
Ere 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 fathers
save 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 band
Some who love temperance and godly life.
That's the crowd I'll join. They will not plunge into
Those dreadful orgies that the _Globe_ describes,
Of men half-tight with lager and old rye,
Who waylay freshmen and immerse them in
The 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, I
Shall cringe and crawl, and in the presence of
A 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 played
Uriah Heep, and made the character
So "'umble" and so crawly, that for days
I loathed my hands, and slapped my fingers well
For 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; Honours
in Classics, and Prizeman in German again. You cannot think how queer I
feel with all my blushing honours thick upon me, and more to come.
Tuesday! my dear Orphea, Tuesday! Only think of it, Master of Arts, or
more correctly Mistress of Arts! Now let the New Zealanders boast, and
the 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 successful
cousin--the Canterbury Antipodeans got their honours _first_. It
reminds me of the saying that the nearer to church the farther from
heaven, since it is evidently the nearer to the centre of civilization
the farther from a University Degree, so far as we unfortunate women are
concerned. But never mind! I've proved that Canadian girls are equal in
mental power with Canadian boys, and I am only impatient to let the Dons
know it.
"And now, my love, for the conclusion of the two years' farce. It has
cost me a whole week's sleep to sketch a plan by which to declare my sex
in the most becoming manner to my fellow students.
"Do you know, dear, when I look back upon the pleasures of the past two
years--how soon we forget the pain!--I am not inclined to regret the
step rendered necessary by my devotion to my sex, for use has made me
quite at home in the--ah--divided skirt! How many lovely girls have I
danced with through the rosy hours who will never more smile on me as
they were wont to smile! How many flowers of rhetoric have been wasted
on me by the irony of fate! How many _billets-doux_, so perfumed
and pretty, lie in my desk addressed to my nether garment! And how many
mammas have encouraged Mr. Christopher, who will forever taboo Miss
Bloggs! And then the parties and the picnics! Ah, my dear Orphea, what
do 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 before
the astonished eyes of the multitude as Miss Bloggs, M.A.
"You know my style, the latest out, which I find by the fashion books is
Mignonette trimmed with Chinese Pheasant. Buttons up the back of the
sleeves, with rubies and amethysts. Let the fichu be Eidelweiss; trim
the fan and slippers with the same, and use dandelions and calla lilies
for the bouquets. Not a button less than forty on the gloves, and don't
forget my hair.
"Get yourself up to match by contrast, and come and help me make a
sensation.
"The dinner is on the _tapis_. Webb will be caterer, Sells will
supply the cider; Shapter and Jeffery the Zoedone, and I have entered
into a contract with the Toronto Water Works for pure water on this
occasion only. I have bought up every flower in Toronto, so that if the
tariff does not prevent it, other folks will have to import their own
roses; and I have engaged every boy in the public schools who has
nothing better to do next Saturday to go to Lome Park and bring back as
many maiden-hairs as he can find. Ferns are my craze, as you know, and I
am 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 flowers
and plants. Twenty gentlemen, among whom is_ Mr. Tom Christopher, _each
accompanying 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 health
and welfare of our host, who should have been our honoured guest but for
that persistent pertinacity he exhibited in the matter, and which he
does himself the injustice to call womanish. But I am sure, ladies and
gentlemen, no one but himself ever accused our esteemed host of being
womanish, and when we look upon the high standing he has achieved in our
University, the honour he confers on his Alma Mater by his scholarly
attainments and the gentlemanly character he has won among all sorts of
students, I am sure, ladies and gentlemen, we should be doing great
injustice to you all were we for one moment to admit that he could be
other than he is, an honour to Toronto University, and a credit to his
sex. I am quite sure the ladies are at this moment envying the happy
woman whom he will at no distant date probably distinguish with his
regard, and it must be satisfactory to ourselves, gentlemen, to know
that it lies in our power, as the incumbents of academic honours, to be
able to bestow that reversion of them on those who, having all the world
at their feet, need not sigh for the fugitive conquests that demand
unceasing toil and an unlimited amount of gas or coal-oil. Ladies and
gentlemen, I call upon you to fill your sparkling glasses to the honour
of our host and college chum, Mr. Tom Christopher. And here's with a
hip, 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 cold
And hard suspicion; but you received
Me 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 kind
About my sisters; and Time, who takes
Men 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 fear
My lady guests would think I did presume;
But yet I know, and knowing it am proud,
That most men here to-night would welcome all
The sweet girl-graduates that would fill the list
Did but the College Council set aside
A foolish prejudice, and let them in.
And now, I know a girl who long has worked
To pass the exams, take the proud degree
I hold to-day, and yet her petticoat
Forbade.
_Several Voices_.--Name! Name! A toast! A toast!
_Mr. Tom_.--I will not name her, gentlemen, but bring
Her to your presence, if you so incline;
First begging that you will not let surprise
Oust self-possession, for my friend's a girl
Of timid temper, though she's bold to act
If 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 eyes
And 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 once
again as you were wont to be; those nasty ugly pants
forever 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 known
Me hitherto as Thomas Christopher.
Four years ago I passed the exams, for
Us 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 mine
Could move the flinty heads of College Council.
Order and discipline forbade, they said,
That women should sit-side by side with men
Within their walls. At church, or concert, or
At theatre, or ball, no separation's made
Of sexes. And so I, being a girl
Of firm and independent mind, resolved
To do as many a one beside has done
For lesser prize, and, as a man, sat at
The feet of our Gamaliels until I got
The learning that I love. That I may now
Look you all in the face without a blush, save--that
Which naturally comes at having thus
To avow my hardihood, is praise, I trow,
You will not think unworthy; and to me
It forms a soft remembrance that will ever dwell
Within 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 pardon
For our rough ways.
_Kate_.--No; pardon me.
_Many Voices_.--No! no! we ask your pardon.
_Kate_.--If that, indeed, as I must need believe
From all your looks, you do not blame me much,
Endue me with a favour. It is this:--
Let every man and woman here to-night
Look out for those petitions that will soon
Be placed in many a store by those our friends
Who in this city form a ladies' club,
And each one sign. Nay more, to show you mean
What I, with swelling heart have often heard
You strongly urge, the rights of women to
The College privileges, get all your friends
To sign. Do what your judgment charges you
To help so good a cause, and let the lists
Of 1883 have no more names
Set by themselves as women. Let us go
In numbrous strength before the Parliament,
And ask our rights in such a stirring sort,
They shall be yielded. Then I shall know
Your brotherly and pleasant words mean faith,
And shall no more regret a daring act
That 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, sped
A word that set the aviary on flame.
"To-morrow comes the Prince," it said, "to choose
A bird of gifts will grace the royal bower."
O then began a fluttering and a fume--
A judging each of all! Pert airs and speech
Flew thick as moulted feathers. Little heads
Were tossed in lofty pride, or in disdain
Were turned aside. For each bird deemed his own
The merits that would charm. One only sang
To-day his daily song, nor joined the crowd
In envious exultation. To him spoke
Another of his kind. "Vain one, refrain
That everlasting pipe, fit for a cage
Behind some cotter's lattice, where thy gray
And 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 depth
Of perfect colour, ne'er will notice me."
The morrow came,--the Prince. Each bird essayed
To please the royal taste, and many a meed
Of praise was won and given--this for his hue;--
That for his elegance;--another for
His fascinating grace. Yet something lacked,
'Twas evident, and many an anxious glance
Betrayed the latent fear.
"Yon little bird
In quiet gray and green courts not my praise,
Yet should a singer be," exclaimed the Prince,
As with a critical and searching eye
He scanned the small competitors for choice.
Obedient to his governor, the bird
Poured forth his song, oblivious of the crowd
Of vain and envious round him, in whose eyes
He stood contemptible. The Prince, entranced,
Broke forth at length: "Nor hue, nor elegance,
Nor fascination, can outvie the gift
Of genius. My choice is made."
And to the great offence
Of one bright bird, at least, the humble gray
Became the royal treasure.
INSINCERITY.
Tired of the narrow limits her assigned,
Truth fled the earth; and men were fain to grope
In utter darkness. Blindly they blundered,
And were long distraught, till on the horizon rose
A luminosity, and in its midst
A form. They cried, "'Tis Truth! fair Truth returned!'
And though the light seemed dim, the form but faint
To 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 began
To quest their goddess' claim. Then, too, was set
A secret watch, a covert test for proof;
And one fine day there rose a clamour, such
As cheated mobs will make, when cunning puts
A veto on their claim.
For this mob found that, in her stolen guise
Of 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 tossed
In wrathful argument on just desert,
Fair Truth indeed appeared, clad in her robes
Of glorious majesty. "Desist, my friends,"
She cried; "the executioner condign
Of Insincerity, and your avenger,
Is Time, my faithful henchman."
THE TWO TREES.
FROM THE FRENCH OF P. LE MAY.
Two trees, amid whose leafy shade
The warbling birds their vigils paid,
Stood neighbours--each as noble tree
In 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 wind
That lashed him oft in frenzy blind.
A day there happed when from the north
Aquilon drave his forces forth,
And hurled them headlong on the rock
Where, 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 took
A 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 blast
For 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
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