Roughing It in the Bush. Susanna Moodie
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sat apart from the rest, and seemed struggling with intense grief, which, in spite of all their efforts at concealment, was strongly impressed upon their features. Some time after, I fell into conversation with the woman, from whom I learned their little history. The husband was factor to a Scotch gentleman, of large landed property, who had employed him to visit Canada, and report the capabilities of the country, prior to his investing a large sum of money in wild lands. The expenses of their voyage had been paid, and everything up to that morning had prospered them. They had been blessed with a speedy passage, and were greatly pleased with the country and the people; but of what avail was all this? Their only son, a fine lad of fourteen, had died that day of the cholera, and all their hopes for the future were buried in his grave. For his sake they had sought a home in this far land; and here, at the very onset of their new career, the fell disease had taken him from them for ever—here, where, in such a crowd, the poor heart-broken mother could not even indulge her natural grief!
“Ah, for a place where I might greet!” she said; “it would relieve the burning weight at my heart. But with sae many strange eyes glowering upon me, I tak' shame to mysel' to greet.”
“Ah, Jeannie, my puir woman,” said the husband, grasping her hand, “ye maun bear up; 'tis God's will; an sinfu' creatures like us mauna repine. But oh, madam,” turning to me, “we have sair hearts the day!”
Poor bereaved creatures, how deeply I commiserated their grief—how I respected the poor father, in the stern efforts he made to conceal from indifferent spectators the anguish that weighed upon his mind! Tears are the best balm that can be applied to the anguish of the heart. Religion teaches man to bear his sorrows with becoming fortitude, but tears contribute largely both to soften and to heal the wounds from whence they flow.
At Brockville we took in a party of ladies, which somewhat relieved the monotony of the cabin, and I was amused by listening to their lively prattle, and the little gossip with which they strove to wile away the tedium of the voyage. The day was too stormy to go upon deck—thunder and lightening, accompanied with torrents of rain. Amid the confusion of the elements, I tried to get a peep at the Lake of the Thousand Isles; but the driving storm blended all objects into one, and I returned wet and disappointed to my berth. We passed Kingston at midnight, and lost all our lady passengers but two. The gale continued until daybreak, and noise and confusion prevailed all night, which were greatly increased by the uproarious conduct of a wild Irish emigrant, who thought fit to make his bed upon the mat before the cabin door. He sang, he shouted, and harangued his countrymen on the political state of the Emerald Isle, in a style which was loud if not eloquent. Sleep was impossible, whilst his stentorian lungs continued to pour forth torrents of unmeaning sound.
Our Dutch stewardess was highly enraged. His conduct, she said, “was perfectly ondacent.” She opened the door, and bestowing upon him several kicks, bade him get away “out of that,” or she would complain to the captain.
In answer to this remonstrance, he caught her by the foot, and pulled her down. Then waving the tattered remains of his straw hat in the air, he shouted with an air of triumph, “Git out wid you, you ould witch! Shure the ladies, the purty darlints, never sent you wid that ugly message to Pat, who loves them so intirely that he manes to kape watch over them through the blessed night.” Then making us a ludicrous bow, he continued, “Ladies, I'm at yer sarvice; I only wish I could get a dispensation from the Pope, and I'd marry yeas all.” The stewardess bolted the door, and the mad fellow kept up such a racket that we all wished him at the bottom of the Ontario.
The following day was wet and gloomy. The storm had protracted the length of our voyage for several hours, and it was midnight when we landed at Cobourg.
THERE'S REST
(Written at midnight on the river St. Lawrence)
There's rest when eve, with dewy fingers,
Draws the curtains of repose
Round the west, where light still lingers,
And the day's last glory glows;
There's rest in heaven's unclouded blue,
When twinkling stars steal one by one,
So softly on the gazer's view,
As if they sought his glance to shun.
There's rest when o'er the silent meads
The deepening shades of night advance;
And sighing through their fringe of reeds,
The mighty stream's clear waters glance.
There's rest when all above is bright,
And gently o'er these summer isles
The full moon pours her mellow light,
And heaven on earth serenely smiles.
There's rest when angry storms are o'er,
And fear no longer vigil keeps;
When winds are heard to rave no more,
And ocean's troubled spirit sleeps;
There's rest when to the pebbly strand,
The lapsing billows slowly glide;
And, pillow'd on the golden sand,
Breathes soft and low the slumbering tide.
There's rest, deep rest, at this still hour—
A holy calm—a pause profound;
Whose soothing spell and dreamy power
Lulls into slumber all around.
There's rest for labour's hardy child,
For Nature's tribes of earth and air—
Whose sacred balm and influence mild,
Save guilt and sorrow, all may share.
There's rest beneath the quiet sod,
When life and all its sorrows cease,
And in the bosom of his God
The Christian finds eternal peace—
That peace the world cannot bestow,
The rest a Saviour's death-pangs bought,
To bid the weary pilgrim know
A rest surpassing human thought.
CHAPTER IV—TOM WILSON'S EMIGRATION
“Of all odd fellows, this fellow was the oddest. I have seen
many strange fish in my days, but I never met with his equal.”
About a month previous to our emigration to Canada, my husband said to me, “You need not expect me home to dinner to-day; I am going with my friend Wilson to Y——, to hear Mr. C—— lecture upon emigration to Canada. He has just returned from the North American provinces, and his lectures are attended by vast numbers of persons who are anxious to obtain information on the subject. I got a note from your friend B—— this morning, begging me to come over and listen to his palaver; and as Wilson thinks of emigrating in the spring, he will be my walking companion.”
“Tom Wilson going to Canada!” said I, as the door closed on my better-half. “What a backwoodsman he will make! What a loss to the single ladies of S——! What will they do without him at their balls and picnics?”
One of my sisters, who was writing at a table near me, was highly amused at this unexpected announcement. She fell back in her chair and indulged in a long and hearty laugh. I am certain that most of my readers would have joined in her laugh had they known the object