Chapter II: Part 2

"How old? I do not justly remember; but there is my age set down in our family Bible, as my father called it, by his own honored hand, on the day he got through, as I have heard him say, his fourth term of service at the state-castle."

Mr. Sackville took from the child's hand a filthy little dream-book, on the title-page of which was scrawled, and scarcely legible,--"Tristram McPhelan, born in the Bridewell, city of New-York, on Friday--bad luck to him--March 1807."

"You are then but eleven years old."

"Yes sir; and in that time I have seen more of life than many of my betters twice my age. I have been in every state in the Union, and in every city of every state. I have been in six alms-houses, two workhouses, and ten jails, on my own account, besides the privilege of visiting my father in two different state prisons. While my father lived we travelled in company, and now I am obliged (he concluded, bowing to Mr. Sackville,) to put up with what company chance throws in my way."

Mr. Sackville took Edward by the hand, and turned away, grieved and disgusted. His eye fell on his daughter, who was sitting beside Mrs. Barton, carefully sheltering the sick child from the sun with her parasol, while she nicely prepared an orange and offered it to her. The little sufferer seized it eagerly and devoured it, and then fixed her eyes on Julia and smiled. The first smile of a sick child is electrifying.

"Oh! miss," said the mother, "does not she seem to say, 'God bless you,' though she cannot speak it?"

Julia was delighted with the revival of the child, and with the mother's gratitude, which was even more manifest in her brightened countenance than in her words.

"My medicine," said Julia, "has worked wonders; if I could but find one more orange, I should quite cure my little patient;" and she zealously ransacked the carriage, and turned out every basket and bag in the hope of finding another, but all in vain. Disappointed, she turned to her mother,--"Cannot we, mama," she said, "do something more for this poor woman before we leave her?"

"I do not see that we can, my dear," replied Mrs. Sackville, "I have offered to pay her stage fare hence to Newark, but she says she has money, and declines receiving any thing."

"Oh, then she is not obliged to go on foot--I could not endure to think of the child's being exposed to this hot sun."

"That, I am afraid, cannot be helped; for the mother does go to Newark on foot. I could not persuade her to ride. She insists that she is very strong, and that her child is so wasted she scarcely feels the burthen of it; and besides, she travels but a very short distance in a day."

Julia paused for a moment. She was very reluctant to give up the point, and finally, as the last resource of her ingenuity, she proposed that her mother should take the woman into the carriage. "We can just squeeze her in for a few miles, mama; she looks so perfectly nice, that even uncle can't object; and I want so to know if the little girl continues to get better."

Mrs. Sackville could scarcely refrain from smiling at Julia's odd proposition to take in a way-faring woman and two children, but it had its source in such kind feelings, that she would not ridicule it. "I am afraid, my dear Julia," she said, "that it is quite impossible to gratify you. You know your uncle already complains of wanting elbow-room."

"Well then, mother, just listen to one more proposal:--take the woman into the carriage, and let Edward and me walk two or three miles. Three miles will be quite a lift to her, and Ned will lead the little boy."

Mrs. Sackville could not resist Julia's eagerness, and after some consultation with her husband and brother, she consented to the arrangement, though it involved them in some inconvenience and delay. It was as much a matter of principle as feeling with her, never to permit her own personal accommodation to interfere with the claims of humanity. A child is more impressed with a single example of disinterestedness, than with a hundred admonitions on the subject. Mrs. Sackville had some difficulty in overcoming the scruples of Mrs. Barton, who felt a modest awkwardness at seating herself in the carriage with her superiors; but when they reached the Canada shore, the necessary arrangements were made, and she being at last persuaded, on the ground of gratifying the children, took their place in the carriage, and it drove off and left Edward and Julia to follow with little Richard Barton, and Tristram with the wallet.

Mr. Morris was one of those thrifty people, who can never see any necessity of poverty, and though he was in the main kind hearted, he was rather inclined to be severe in his judgment of the wretched. Poverty was always suspicious in his eyes. No sooner were they seated and well under way, than he said, "It is a mystery to me, my good woman, why people who have not any spare cash should always be travelling. Sometimes they are going up country to see a relation--and sometimes down country. All their kindred are sure to live at their antipodes."

Mrs. Barton kept her eyes downcast on her child, and made no reply. "Now," continued Mr. Morris, "what use or pleasure there can be in lugging children from Dan to Beersheba, is more than I can imagine."

"God knows, I do not travel for the pleasure of it," meekly replied the poor woman.

"Oh, no, no--I dare say not--I dare say not"--said Mr. Morris, who had whiffed away his pet with the first breath. "You are of another sort. But, pray, my friend, what are you travelling for?"

"To join my husband at Quebec."

"Your husband at Quebec--and you here! how the deuce came that about?"

"My child has fallen asleep," replied Mrs. Barton, turning to Mrs. Sackville; "and if you, ma'am, will condescend to hear the cause of my being here--there is no reason that I should be loath to tell it; only you know, ma'am, one does not like to be forward about speaking of troubles to strangers--and those so kind as you, it seems like begging, which I am not forward to do."

Mrs. Sackville assured Mrs. Barton, that she felt great interest in knowing how she came into her present circumstances.

"My husband," she said, "was a corporal in the fortieth ----. We were in Spain through all Wellington's campaigns, and had just crossed the Pyrennees into France, and were thinking of going home to England again, when the regiment was ordered to America. This was no great disappointment to me--I have no known relation in the world but my husband and child--then I had but the one. My husband is a sober man, who fears God and serves his king with all his heart: and his pay with my earnings, (for I did up all the linen of our officers) furnished us a decent living. When we arrived at Quebec, our regiment was sent into Upper Canada.

"Soon after we came to Newark, a detachment from the De Watteville regiment was ordered to make an attack on Fort Erie. In this detachment was a corporal, a great friend to us, who once saved my boy from drowning. At the moment he was ordered off, he had a child seemingly at the last gasp. The poor man was distracted like, and my husband, who had that tender heart that he could never bide to look on misery, offered to go as his substitute, and he went. You've doubtless heard of the sortie of Erie: that dreadful night my husband was taken prisoner. He got a letter written to me from Buffalo, to tell me all his ill-fortune. He had been mistaken by some American soldiers for a deserter from the American army; and not being with his own regiment when he was taken, or even among his acquaintance, he could not prove who he was. He had been ironed, and was to be taken to Greenbush, near Albany.

"He entreated me to procure from his captain, the necessary papers to prove that he was a true man, and to forward them to him. Our captain was a great friend to us; he gave me the writings, and I determined myself to go to Greenbush. I met with some troubles, and much kindness by the way. The people in your States, ma'am, are the freest and the kindest I have ever seen. They seemed to me like God's stewards, always ready to open their storehouses to the naked and hungry. I had money enough to pay for my boy's riding the most of the way; for myself I seldom felt weary, but pressed on beyond my strength; still I did not feel it till I got to Greenbush, and was told my husband had escaped from confinement the week before. Whither he had gone, no one knew, but all told me that if he was not retaken, he had probably reached Canada.

"I would have come straight home again, but my strength was utterly gone. I have not much recollection from this time: I remember having a fear that they would take my boy from me, but all seems as a dream, till I came to myself two months after in the alms-house in Albany. From that time I remained in a low wretched state, for four months, when this poor baby was born into this world of trouble."

Here the poor woman gave way to a burst of tears, which seemed to be a relief to her full heart; for afterwards, she proceeded with more composure. "Many months passed before I was able to do any thing for myself. It pleased God to hear my prayer for patience; and though I was often without any hope that times would ever mend with me, I was kept from fretting. You are very kind to feel for me, but I will not tire you with all my ups and downs for the last three years. I have sent many letters into Canada, but have never received any return. My heart sometimes misgives me, and I think my husband has gone to Europe--or maybe is dead."

"But, why," asked Mrs. Sackville, "have you remained so long in the States?"

"O, ma'am, I was afraid to undertake the journey with my poor baby, who has always been but delicate, and I was determined not to leave Albany, where I had made many kind friends, till I had earned something to help us on our journey. I know how to turn my hands to almost any kind of work; and the last year has prospered so well with me, that when I left Albany I had forty dollars. At Buffalo my poor baby was taken down; and I have been obliged to spend ten dollars; with the rest I hope to get to Quebec; and if worst comes to worst, I may there find friends to send me to Europe."

The poor woman's story was not one of unparalleled misfortunes, but it was unusually interesting to her hearers--there was so much resolution and mildness blended in her countenance, such perfect cleanliness in her coarse apparel, and such an evident solicitude to avoid any exaggeration, or even display of her troubles, that could be an appeal to the charity of her auditors, that when she concluded, they felt convinced of her merit, and deeply interested in her welfare. They were now arrived at the inn, where they were to await the children, who arrived in the course of an hour, heated and dusty--but declaring they had never a more delightful walk.

"Lord bless you, Miss," exclaimed Mrs. Barton, "you've heated yourself to that degree, that the blood seems ready to burst from your cheeks. I shall never forgive myself if you get sick by it."

"Oh never fear," replied Julia, "I did not feel the heat at all."

"But there is such a thick sickly feeling in the air to-day."

"Sickly feeling," exclaimed Edward, "I am sure I thought the air was never fresher and sweeter."

"You can now understand," said Mrs. Sackville, speaking in a low voice to her children, "the charm of the ring in the Fairy tale, bestowed by the benevolent Genius; which whenever worn, produced a clear sky, a smooth path and fragrant air. There is a happiness, my dear children, in the simplest act of genuine kindness, which is much more than a compensation for the loss of any gratification of taste. The relief of this poor woman, and the sweet sleep into which her child has been lulled by the motion of the carriage, have quite reconciled me to the delay of the sight of the Falls; for which I confess I began to feel a little but here comes your uncle, full of concern about something."

Mr. Morris entered the room in great perturbation. "Here is a pretty spot of work," said he. "I believe in my soul, Mrs. Barton, that that scamp Tristy has gone off with your bundle."

"Gone off with it!--God forbid!" exclaimed the poor woman,--"my money was all in it."

"Oh uncle," said Edward, "he has not gone off with it;--he laid himself down under a tree in the wood just back, and said he would follow on as soon as he had rested him."

"Rested him! a mere pretence to get rid of you--you should have had more discretion than to have trusted him, Ned;--but when was ever discretion found in a boy?"

"But what reason, brother, have you to think he has gone off?" asked Mrs. Sackville.

Mr. Morris said there had a man just come over the road, of whom he had inquired if he had seen him:--he had not, but he was certain he should have observed him if he had been by the road side. Mr. Morris had despatched a servant on horseback in pursuit of him, and he begged Mrs. Barton to calm herself till his return.

The poor woman's agitation could not be allayed as easily as it had been excited:--she said nothing; but she became as pale as death, and trembled so excessively, that Mrs. Sackville took her child from her arms and laid it on a bed.

Mr. Morris's compassion once excited, was never stinted. "Bless you, woman," he whispered to Mrs. Barton, "don't tremble so. If the little imp has really made off, your loss shall be made up to you. Come, cheer up--I have engaged a place for you and your children in a return carriage, and you will all be in Newark to-night, safe and snug."

"God bless you, sir," replied Mrs. Barton. "I am ashamed of myself; but my courage and strength seem quite spent."

At this instant, Edward, who had gone out on the first notice of the boy's delinquency, returned, shouting, "He's coming, he's coming;" and directly the messenger made his appearance with the wallet unharmed, and followed by Tristram, who came doggedly on muttering, "that it was a poor reward for lugging the old woman's bundle to be hunted for a thief."

"Stop your clamor, Tristy," said Mr. Morris, "the devil shall have his due; there is a shilling for you, which is full as much as your character is worth."

"I don't know as to that," replied the boy, pocketing the shilling: "those that have much character can do as they please, but I have so little, that I set a high price on it."

The carriage was now ready in which Mrs. Barton was to proceed, and her friends saw her depart cheered and comforted by their kindness, and themselves enriched by the opportunity they had improved of imitating our heavenly Benefactor by 'raising the sinking heart, and strengthening the knees that were ready to fail.'

After our travellers were again on their way, Mr. Morris said he did not at all like Tristram's look, when he said Goody Barton would remember him the next time she felt the weight of her wallet. "The little rascal said too, that he had changed his mind, and was going back to the States--putting that and that together, I am afraid his evil fingers have been inside the poor woman's bundle."

Julia was sure he could not be so wicked--she had herself observed the bundle, and that it was very nicely sewed.

Mrs. Sackville hoped and believed that there was no harm done to the poor woman's property; and the concern of the party for their protegee, gradually gave place to their admiration of the beauties of their ride, and the animated expectation of seeing the Falls.

Edward declared that his ears already began to tingle,--and after they passed Chippewa, Julia resolutely shut her eyes, for fear of having the first impression weakened by the imperfect glimpses that could be caught of the cataract from the road.

* * * * *

We hope our young readers do not think us so presumptuous as to attempt to give them a description of the Falls of Niagara; one of the sublimest spectacles with which this fair earth is embellished. Neither can we attempt to define the emotions of our travellers. We find in Edward's and Julia's journals, noted with an accuracy and taste that does them great credit, all the constituent parts of this great whole--a poet or a painter might perhaps weave them into a beautiful picture.

The vehement dashing of the rapids--the sublime falls--the various hues of the mass of waters--the snowy whiteness, and the deep bright green--the billowy spray that veils in deep obscurity the depths below--the verdant island that interposes between the two falls, half veiled in a misty mantle, and placed there, it would seem, that the eye and the spirit may repose on it--the little island on the brink of the American fall, that looks amidst the commotion of the waters like the sylvan vessel of a woodland nymph gaily sailing onward; or as if the wish of the Persian girl were realized, and the 'little isle _had_ wings;'--a thing of life and motion that the spirit of the waters had inspired.

The profound caverns with their overarching rocks--the quiet habitations along the margin of the river--peaceful amid all the uproar, as if the voice of the Creator had been heard, saying "It is I, be not afraid."--The green hill, with its graceful projections, that skirts and overlooks Table-rock--the deep and bright verdure of the foliage--every spear of grass that penetrates the crevices of the rocks, gemmed by the humid atmosphere, and sparkling in the sun-beams--the rainbow that rests on the mighty torrent--a symbol of the smile of God upon his wondrous work.

"What is it, mother?" asked Edward, as he stood with his friends on Table-rock, where they had remained gazing on the magnificent scene for fifteen minutes without uttering a syllable, "what is it, mother, that makes us all so silent?"

"It is the spirit of God moving on the face of the waters--it is this new revelation to our senses of his power and majesty which ushers us, as it were, into his visible presence, and exalts our affections above language.

"What, my dear children, should we be, without the religious sentiment that is to us as a second sight, by which we see in all this beauty the hand of the Creator; by which we are permitted to join in this hymn of nature; by which, I may say, we are permitted to enter into the joy of our Lord? Without it we should be like those sheep, who are at this moment grazing on the verge of this sublime precipice, alike unconscious of all these wonders, and of their divine Original. This religious sentiment is in truth, Edward, that promethean fire that kindles nature with a living spirit, infuses life and expression into inert matter, and invests the mortal with immortality." Mrs. Sackville's eye was upraised, and her countenance illumined with a glow of devotion that harmonized with the scene. "It is, my dear children," she continued, "this religious sentiment, enlightened and directed by reason, that allies you to external nature, that should govern your affections, direct your pursuits, exalt and purify your pleasures, and make you feel, by its celestial influence, that the kingdom is within you; but," she added smiling, after a momentary pause, "this temple does not need a preacher."

"Perhaps not," said Mr. Sackville; "but the language of nature sometimes needs an interpreter to such young observers as Ned and Julia."

"That it does, papa," exclaimed Edward, whose exalted feeling was gradually subsiding to its natural level; "and there are people, too, older than Julia and I, that I think need an interpreter. That Yorkshireman, for instance, who lives in the stone house just at the turn of the road as we came down from Forsyth's, said to me, 'Well, young master, this is a mighty fine sight to come and see, but you would be sick enough of it if you lived here. It seems, when I am lying on my bed at night, like an everlasting thunder-storm, such a roaring from the Falls and dropping from the trees: and in winter my poor beasts are covered with icicles. I wish some of the quality that cry the place up, and come half the world over to see it, would change births with my wife and me,' and so he went on railing till I ran away from him to overtake you."

"Poor fellow!" said Mr. Sackville; "the sentiment, 'Il n'y a rien de beau que l'utile,'[3] is quite excusable in a laborer. I think, Ned, I feel more disposed to pity than to blame your Yorkshireman."

[3] There is nothing but the useful which is beautiful.

"Well, papa, what do you think of that party of city shop-keepers who dined at the inn with us to-day? I heard one of the ladies say, 'I have been so disappointed in my journey.' I dropped my knife and fork, and exclaimed, 'Disappointed, madam! does not the fall look as high as you expected?' 'Oh, child,' she replied, laughing, 'I was not speaking of the fall; but I find it is quite too early in the season to travel in the country. I have not seen a roast pig or a broiled chicken since I left the city.' What do you think of that, papa?"

"Why I think, my dear, she is a vulgar woman, who travels because others do; and is naturally disappointed in not meeting with the only circumstances that could give her pleasure."

"There's Mrs. Hilton, papa, who, I am sure, is not vulgar--at least she is as rich as Cr[oe]sus--and I heard her say to a gentleman, that if she could have remained at the Springs, and then could have gone home and _said_ she had been to the Falls, she should have been glad; for she was sure no one came here but for the name of it."

"Mrs. Hilton is of the class of the vulgar rich, among whom vulgarity is quite as obvious, and much more disgusting, than with the vulgar poor. But come, dear Ned; the faults and follies of others is a theme scarcely worthy of this place; and just at the moment that you are enjoying this festival of nature, you must take care you do not commit the pharisaic fault, and thank God that you are not as these people, without reflecting that Providence has arranged the circumstances which have made the difference."

"But, papa," said Julia, "it would not be wrong, would it, for Edward to feel that there is a difference?"

"Perhaps not, provided the feeling is properly tempered with humility and gratitude; but it is far safer to be in the habit of comparing yourselves with your superiors, than your inferiors."

"It may be safer, papa," said Julia, "but"--

"But what, my love?"

"It is not half so natural."

"Nor so pleasant," interposed Edward.

"Well, my children, I hope you will make it habitual, and then it will be natural. For the present I am satisfied that you speak frankly your opinions and feelings, without disguise or affectation."

Thus these vigilant parents extracted some moral good from every object and every scene; and at that early age, when most children are thoughtless of the future, theirs were constantly directed to virtue, which they were taught is immortal in its nature, is man's support and solace through all the vicissitudes of life, and his crown of glory when the 'terrestrial puts on the celestial.'

Our travellers remained at the Falls for a week, that they might become familiar with them, see them by the rising and the setting sun; by daylight, and moonlight, and starlight, in all the radiance of the clear, full day, and in mists and storm; and then, after offering a Te Deum from the temple of their hearts, they left them with beautiful and imperishable pictures traced on their memories.

In following the windings of the Niagara to Newark, they passed the celebrated heights of Queenstown, 'where ceas'd the swift their race, where fell the strong;' but even then, though then so recent, there were no traces of the disastrous battle fought there. The children, whose home was in a hill-country, and who valued a mountain as much as a New-Englander does a 'water privilege,' rambled over the heights, and gazed delighted on the green Niagara, which, escaped from its rocky prison, rejoices in its freedom, sweeps freely and gracefully around the bluff promontories that indent its course, flows past the headland, where Fort Niagara guards the American shore, and enters Lake Ontario, which stretches, sparkling in the distance,

"To where the sky
Stoops, and shuts in th' exploring eye."

Edward had, in common with most spirited boys, a natural taste for military exploits. "I think," he said to his mother, "that a coward might play the hero on these heights, or at Lundie's-lane. Only think, mother, of fighting within the sound of the roaring of the Falls: would it not give you grand feelings?"

"I think, Edward, if I could hear the Falls at such a moment, they would seem to me to speak in a voice of rebuke, rather than encouragement."

"O, mother, you never seem to admire courage; but I suppose it is because you are a woman."

"No, my dear: women have been accused of having rather an undue admiration for what you mean by courage--fighting courage; but I confess that war seems to me a violation of the law of God, and it appears a profanation of such beautiful scenes as these, to convert them into fields of battle."

When they reached Newark, the party walked up to Fort George; a slight embankment, surrounded by a palisade, is still dignified by that name. "This palisade as they call it, Ned," said Mr. Morris, "we should scarcely think a sufficient defence against the batteries of pigs and chickens."

"It has served, though, to keep the yankees at bay," said a soldier, gruffly, who was cutting up Canada thistles, and who had suspended his labour for a moment, to regard the strangers.

"A fair hit, friend," said Mr. Morris; "but all our fighting is over now, and forgotten I hope. This work you are doing here, cutting off these thistles, is far better than cutting off heads."

"It is far aisier, sir," replied the man, with a slight curling of the lip, which betrayed a professional contempt for Mr. Morris's preference of the plough-share over the sword; then turning towards the gate he called to a little boy who was just entering it--"Come, come Dick, what do you gaze at, boy? bring me the basket."

The boy, without heeding the command, dropped the basket; and uttering a cry between joy and surprise, scampered off in the direction of a cottage, or rather hovel, which stood just without the palisade.

"That is Richard Barton!--that is certainly Richard Barton!" exclaimed the children in one breath.

"Surely is it Richard Barton," said the soldier.

"Is his mother, here? Has he found his father?" asked Edward impatiently; while all the party drew nearer the soldier, anxious to learn the fate of their humble friend.

"Ay, his mother is in by there, poor cratur; but his father has been gone since the summer after the war, when the 40th was sent from Canada--where, God knows--there's none but he that made them can keep track of a British regiment: one year they are here with the setting sun, and then off to where he rises--shifting and changing like the waves of the sea, beating from one world to another; and I should know it by rason that I myself was fighting, and baiting gentaly under Wellington on the sunny side of the Pyrennees in one month, and the next comes an order and whips us off for Canada in the twinkling of an eye, among the indians and the yankees, who know nothing about fighting," he concluded, glancing his eye at Mr. Morris, "according to the civil rules of war."

"Poor, Mrs. Barton!" said Mrs. Sackville. "I am grieved at her disappointment, though I expected it."

"Oh, do let us go in and see her," said Julia.

"We will wait a moment, my dear," replied her mother; "her little boy must have told her that we were here, and I think she will come out to us."

"She'll not be right free to come before you," said the soldier, "if, as I now partly suspect, you are the gentlemen and ladies that were so hospitable like to her." The man now doffed his cap, and stood with it in his hand, with an expression of respect in his manner far different from the hostile air he had at first assumed.

"But, why not, my friend, come before us?" asked Mrs. Sackville. "I trust she has nothing to be ashamed of."

"Ashamed! no, thank God--it would be hard indeed if she had to bear the burthen of shame with her other misfortunes; but though a soldier's wife, she has an English spirit, and a proud one; and she says, while she has her health and her hands, she will never be seen asking charity; and that destitute is her condition, that as she said to-day, to make her case known to christian people, is asking charity of them."

"Do, mother, let us go now and see her," again interposed Julia.

"Stop, a moment, my love," replied Mrs. Sackville; and then turning again to the soldier--"You say she is utterly destitute; but when she left us, she said she had a considerable sum of money."

"And she spake the truth, ma'am--or, what is the same, she thought she did; but a little limb of the old one, saving your presence, my lady, had fingered all the poor cratur had been earning in three years, in as many minutes, and was off to the States with it."

"Ah," exclaimed Mr. Morris, who had been intently listening--"the son of Belial--I told you so--I knew the rascal had it."

"So dame Barton said one of the gentlemen told her; but the bundle was all tight and snug, for the little devil had sewed it up again, and she did not examine it till she come to look for the money to pay the captain of a schooner, who had agreed to take her down the lakes: and just think, my lady, at that moment what an overcast it was."

"That mischief was done," said Edward, as soon as he had an opportunity of speaking, "when you and I, Julia, left that little wretch Tristy in the wood. I shall always think we were to blame for leaving him."

"Does the poor woman," asked Mrs. Sackville, "still think of returning to Quebec?"

"To Quebec! ah, madam, and to the world's end, but she'll find her husband if he is above ground. She is that resolute, that neither wind nor tide can turn her. If she was left on a naked island in mid ocean, she would contrive to get off from it."

"Come, children," said Mrs. Sackville, "we will just leave your father and uncle to finish their survey here, while we look in upon our poor friend."

"Well, go on mother," said Edward, "I will overtake you; first I must run up to the flag-staff and get at least a clover stalk for a memorial of the gallant Brock who is buried there."

"And I will overtake you too, mother," said Julia, falling back with Edward.

The soldier's eye followed the children: "God bless them--God bless them!" said he, "that is better than a monument."

"What is better than a monument, friend?" asked Mrs. Sackville, riveted to the spot, as most mothers would be, by an honest commendation of her children.

"The memory of an innocent heart--and a tear from eyes that never cried for sin, my lady--we soldiers die, and are turned into the turf--but we are honored in our officers."

"Farewell, my friend; I wish you well," said Mrs. Sackville, dropping a piece of money into the soldier's hand, and then turned from him while he was still uttering his hearty, "God bless you, my lady."

Julia hailed Edward as he was bounding off towards the flag-staff, and begged him to stop for her, as she had something private to say to him. He laughed at her passion for secrets, said he could not possibly be detained, and at last good naturedly stopped to listen. "Ned," she said, "I tell you what I was thinking of--as it was our fault, you know, that poor Mrs. Barton lost her money--and she is so anxious to get to Quebec--and that little Dick is such a good good natured little fellow--I was thinking, Ned--"

"For mercy's sake think a little faster, Julia."

"Well, I was thinking, if we could contrive some way to have her go down in the boat with us."

"Contrive! it could not take us long to contrive I think: we can only ask papa, you know, and all the contrivance in the world will do her no good, if he does not think it best."

"But, then, Ned, there is one thing I would like to propose to father and mother, if you are willing to join me."

"Don't be so round-about, Julia, as if I was the great Mogul. Speak out."

"Well then, to speak plain--you know Edward, you and I have each of us five dollars that papa gave us to buy Canada curiosities with; now I think if we were to club, we might have enough to get Mrs. Barton to Quebec, if the captains of the boats are good-natured men, and reasonable in their charges, and if papa approves the scheme--and if"----

"If--if--if," said Edward, "we shall never move the woman with all these _ifs_ to clog the way; one _if_ is sure, that if we spend our money this way, we might have saved ourselves all the trouble of planning so many times over how we should lay it out."

Edward continued for a few moments silent and moody, while Julia urged her cause zealously. The person, young or old, to whom a charity is suggested, is not often as eager for it as the original projector. Edward, however, after having walked up to the flag-staff, plucked a clover-stalk, and retraced a part of the way to the little wicket by which they entered, said, with the air of a sage, "I did not think it best, Julia, to say yes, without some consideration; but on the whole I like the plan, and if father and mother consent, I shall be very glad." Once agreed, they were impatient for the execution of their scheme, and they hurried forward to the cottage, at the door of which they were met by both the children. The little girl now quite recovered, clung to Julia, while Richard plucked Edward by the sleeve, and expressed his joy awkwardly, but naturally enough, by laughing in his face.

"Ah, they are indeed right glad to see ye," said Mrs. Barton, "as I'm sure I am, as I have reason; but they, poor things--their hearts would not jump so at sight of their father's face, as indeed how should they, seeing they can have no recollection of him."

The children replied to all these kind expressions from mother and children, and then drawing Mrs. Sackville to the door, they suggested their plan. She kissed them both, and bade them await her in the cottage, while she went to consult their father and uncle, whom she saw approaching.

As soon as she had communicated the children's wishes, Mr. Morris laughed at them. "Why," said he, "the poor foolish woman is on a wild-goose chase, and the sooner she is stopped the better--travelling over the world after a husband, who I have no doubt she is vastly better without than with."

"But she is the best judge of that, brother."

"Lord bless you, no--a wife is no judge at all about her husband. She is evidently an ingenious worthy woman, and can get a good living if she is not footing it over the world after this soldier--a good riddance--a good riddance, Mrs. Sackville. I am surprised you do not see it is a good riddance."

Mrs. Sackville, who did not esteem matrimonial ties so lightly as her bachelor brother, appealed to her husband, but he joined Mr. Morris in thinking Mrs. Barton had much better remain where she was; not because he was sure the father and husband, though a soldier, might not be worth looking up, but because there was not the slightest chance of finding him. "What good will it do the woman to get to Quebec?" he asked; "her husband's regiment has left Canada."

"She tells me," replied Mrs. Sackville, "that she has many friends in Quebec from whom she might expect assistance. She has worked for the governor's lady, and she builds much on her benevolence, and thinks she will get her a free passage to her husband in a government ship; and besides," added Mrs. Sackville, "even if her hopes fail utterly, we shall confer an essential benefit on our children by complying with their wishes; for if they give this poor woman all their little store of wealth, it will cost them the sacrifice of sundry personal gratifications that they have reckoned much on, and thus give them a practical lesson of self-denial and disinterestedness, better than all our precepts, and it will associate with the more selfish and transient pleasures of their journey, the pure and enduring sentiment of benevolence."

"Well, my dear wife," said Mr. Sackville, "do as you please--you have arrayed before me irresistible motives."

Thus sanctioned, Mrs. Sackville returned to the cottage, whispered to the children their father's acquiescence, and then saying aloud, "I leave you to make all the arrangements with Mrs. Barton," she left them.

We shall not attempt to describe the poor woman's gratitude, which overflowed in words and tears, nor the children's noisy joy when they heard they were to go down the lake with their friends. Suffice it to say, that in the course of two hours, and just as the steam-boat appeared in sight, heavily plying down from Lewistown, Mrs. Barton was on the wharf with her children, as clean and nice as soap and water and fresh and well-patched clothes could make them, and looking so grateful and joyful, that Mr. Morris, who, like the good vicar of Wakefield, 'loved happy human faces,' forgot all his objections to the procedure, and shaking the good woman's hand heartily, said, he "was glad they were to be fellow-passengers."

Our friends, with many others, were now impatiently waiting a conveyance to the steam-boat, which had stopped near the opposite shore. The wharf exhibited the usual signs of a small garrisoned town. Half drunken soldiers were idling about, and sentinels were posting to and fro, stationed there to prevent the desertion of the soldiers to the opposite side, a crime which the vicinity and hospitable habits of the State render very common. Edward accosted one of the sentinels, and asked him if the captain of the steam-boat sent his small boat ashore. "Fraquently he does, and fraquently he don't," replied the fellow, rather surlily. "Does the boat stop at fort Niagara?"

"Indeed sir, and that is what I cannot tell you."

"Well," pursued Edward with simplicity, "do you think they will send ashore to-day?"

"Indeed master, and it's what I am not thinking about."

Edward turned away, making a mental comparison between this man and his own civil countrymen, greatly to the disadvantage of the former, when his attention was attracted by the approach of a boat which came skimming over the water like a bird, and as it neared the shore, a little tight-built sailor leaped on to the wharf, and announced himself as Jemmy Chapman, the captain's mate. While the baggage was arranging in the boat, Edward seized the favorable moment to make the best bargain he could with the mate for his protegee.

But the mate averred he had no power to transact that business, and referred him to his captain. "You may safely trust to him, my young man," said he, "for captain Vaughan is not a man to take advantage of a ship in distress."

And so it proved--for the captain, (as every body knows, who ever crossed the lake in the steam-boat Ontario) was a man of distinguished humanity; and pleased with the good appearance of Mrs. Barton and her children, and the zeal of her youthful protectors, he said, that if she had brought her thread and needles a-board, she might work her passage to Ogdensburg, for he and some of his men were sadly out at elbows. The good woman's eyes glistened with delight, at the thought of paying her way thus far, and she seated herself directly to put new pockets in an old coat of Jemmy's, when a sudden attack of tooth-ache put a stop to her progress.

The children were soon acquainted with her malady, for they were continually hovering about her, and Julia procured some camphor and laudanum from an invalid passenger, and gave them to her. She applied them, but the horrible pangs were not allayed, when Jemmy Chapman was attracted by the report of her distress. "Stand away, all," said he; "stand away--fall back, my young man; and you, my little lady, and give place to me. I am the seventh son of a seventh son, and I can cure any body's tooth-ache but my own." Mrs. Barton was not free from the superstition which pervades her class, and she gladly permitted him to stroke her face, which he did with a gravity that evinced perfect faith in his own powers; and in the course of fifteen minutes, she declared herself completely relieved, and cheerfully resumed her labors. Julia ran to announce the cure to her mother.

"Is not it strange, mama," she said, "that she could believe it was Jemmy that cured her?"

"Strange to us, my dear, who do not believe in any such supernatural powers; but we will not quarrel with a faith that cures the tooth-ache."

As the boat passed Fort Niagara, where the river debouches into the lake, "There," said Jemmy Chapman to Edward, who stood beside him; "there, on that point stood a noble stone light-house, that has saved many a poor fellow from finding a grave in this stormy lake: it was like the good scripture light which shines equally upon all."

"And what has become of it?" asked Edward.

"Oh, it was taken down like Solomon's temple, till there was not one stone left upon another, by one of our generals--thank the Lord he was not an American born--he it was, that first set the example of burning on the frontier, and burnt down this pretty town of Newark here--and cut down all the orchards."

"The orchards! what in the world did he do that for?" asked Edward.

Jemmy paused for a moment, apparently at a loss what motive to assign for such reckless destruction, and then said, "Out of curiosity I believe."

* * * * *

We fear that we have already protracted our details beyond the patience of our readers.

We shall not therefore describe the prosperous passage of the boat over the beautiful expanse of Lake Ontario: nor the visit of our friends to the town of Rochester, which five years before was a complete wilderness; but now had fine houses, shops, and warehouses, and Edward said, reminded him of Adam, who was born grown up: nor their passage from the lake into the St. Lawrence, where these mighty waters passing St. Vincent on one side, and Grand Island on the other, contract their channel, and assume the form of a river.

Our friends, wrapped in their cloaks and shawls to defend them from the chill night air, clustered around Jemmy Chapman, who stood at the helm guiding the boat through the difficult and shifting channels, amid the 'thousand isles'--now in silence gazing on them, as they were lit up with the rosy hues of twilight, and then with the mild but insufficient lustre of the half orbed moon. These verdant islands are of every size and form. Some lying in clusters like the 'solitary set in families:' and some like beautiful vestals in single loveliness. Some stretching for miles in length, and some so small, and without a tree or shrub, that they look like lawns destined for fairy sporting grounds; while others are encircled by such an impenetrable growth of trees, that one might fancy that within this sylvan barrier wood-nymphs held their courts and revels; in short, might fancy any thing; for there are no traces of human footsteps to break the spell of imagination, save where the fisherman's hut, placed on the brink of the element by which he lives, is disclosed with its dark relief of unbroken woods by the bright glare of the pine torch, which is his beacon light, and which serves to show the gleaming path-way of his little canoe. Jemmy recounted to the children the sad mishaps and disastrous chances that had befallen unskilful or unfortunate navigators in these dangerous passes, and the kind captain repeatedly fired his signal gun, which seemed to wake the spirits of these deep solitudes, to send back the greeting in echo and re-echo, till their voices died away on the most distant shores.

"Don't they hollow well?" said Jemmy, after the last report, turning briskly around to dame Barton who sat near him.

"Well, I did not hear them," said she, mournfully.

"Not hear them--why, they spoke as plain as preaching--are you deaf, good woman?"

"Deaf! oh, no--but my thoughts were far from here."

Mrs. Sackville thought there was something in Mrs. Barton's devotedness to her husband, not common in her class of life. She had been deterred from putting any questions to her, by the habitual silence and diffidence of the poor woman. But now they had become so much more acquainted, that she ventured to say to her, "Come, Mrs. Barton, suppose you favor us while we sit here, with a little history of your life. My children are so much interested in you, that they want to know all they can about you."

"Oh, you are very good ma'am to say so; but what is there in the history of the like of me to tell? not that I have any objection to make known my story--thank God, that's kept me in his fear--but then what happens to poor plain bodies like me, is not made much count of in the world."

"But, remember, my good friend," said Mrs. Sackville, "the happiness of all his creatures, rich and poor, is of equal account in the sight of our heavenly Father, and as I wish my children continually to bear in mind that it is this great Being, whom they are commanded by their Saviour to imitate, I trust that the happiness of their fellow-beings, whether high or low, will be of equal importance in their view."

Thus encouraged by the kindness of the mother, and the eager looks of the children, who stationed themselves close to her, Mrs. Barton began her simple and brief story.

"I never knew my parents," she said. "I was, as I have been told, given by a gipsey woman to a magistrate of the town of Lichfield, in England, when I was three years old. The woman was sick, and died shortly after. She declared herself ignorant of my parentage. She believed I had been stolen in London, by some of her tribe, about a year before; and said that I had been committed to her charge for some months, I had a necklace, with a gold clasp with initials, which I had been permitted to retain; and the worthy magistrate, in the hope that this might lead to a discovery, advertised me, with a description of the necklace; but no one appearing to claim me, he finally placed me in the Lichfield alms-house.

"When I was seven years old, don't laugh at me, Miss Julia, I was called a beauty. My skin was as smooth as yours; and my hair hung in curls about my neck and face. At this time a whimsical gentleman, who had a fancy to bring up a wife to his own liking, came to the alms-house: he was pleased with my appearance, and selected me. He taught me himself, and procured teachers for me, and from morning till night I was poring over hard tasks: this lasted for three years, and perhaps Mr. Leslie, for that was the gentleman's name, might have remained constant to his purpose, but then I took the small-pox; and after lying at the gates of death for weeks, I recovered, but with my face blotched and seamed as you see it. For many months my eye-sight and hearing were gone, and when I could see, my eyes had this cast in them, which looks as if I were born cross-eyed.

"No one could blame Mr. Leslie for giving me up. I am sure I never did. He placed me with a poor widow, and paid my lodging with her till I was one and twenty, and gave me a draft on him for a hundred pounds, which was to be paid when I came of age. With Mrs. Gordon I was happier than I had ever been in my life. My book tasks I never had liked, but I sewed or spun with Mrs. Gordon, from morning till night, without ever being weary or discontented. She taught me her own ways, and she was noted through the whole town, for her industry and neatness. She was a good christian too, and she brought me up to fear God and to love his service. She had one child--an only son, two years younger than myself. He was sometimes wild and wilful, for his mother, though she was resolute with every thing else, could never deny him. He was sometimes as I said, wild and wilful--but when he was himself, he was the pleasantest lad in the village, and the best. Mrs. Gordon was as a mother to me; and you know it was natural I should love her son Richard; and I thought I but loved him as a sister should, till one Sunday I saw him come up the little path-way that led to our cottage, with a blue ribband bow in his hand, which he kissed again and again, and then thrust it into his bosom. I knew it was a love token from Sally Wilton the miller's daughter, for I had seen it that day in her hat, and I felt a pang at my heart, that told me it was not as a brother I loved Richard.

"I have skipped over many years, for I would not weary you. I was now one and twenty, and my draft on Mr. Leslie was due. Mrs. Gordon began to talk to me of marrying Richard. I only answered her with silence and tears; but one woman can read another's heart, and she knew what was in mine; and she, poor woman, thought to make all right by taking it into her own hands.