She shall have her way this hitch, and so will I have mine bime by, or the deuce is in the die. I didn't surely come to Liscombe Harbour to be taught those things.

"Tell your husband," sais I, "I think very highly of his location, and if hard times continue to pinch him, or he needs a helping hand, I am both able and willing to assist him, and will have great pleasure in doing so for her sake who has so kindly entertained us in his absence. Here is my card and address, if he wants a friend let him come to me, and if he can't do that, write to me, and he will find I am on hand. Any man in Boston will tell him where Sam Slick lives."

"Who?" said she.

"Sam Slick," sais I.

"My goodness," said she, "are you the Mr Slick who used to sell—" She paused and coloured slightly, thinking perhaps, as many people do, I would be ashamed to be reminded of pedling.

"Wooden clocks," sais I, helping her to the word. "Yes," sais I, "I am Sam Slick the Clockmaker, at least what is left of me."

"Goodness gracious, Sir," said she, advancing and shaking hands cordially with me, "how glad I am to see you! You don't recollect me of course, I have grown so since we met, and I don't recollect your features, for it is so long ago, but I mind seeing you at my father's old house, Deacon Flint's, as well as if it was yesterday. We bought a clock from you; you asked mother's leave to let you put it up, and leave it in the room till you called for it. You said you trusted to 'soft sawder' to get it into the house, and to 'human natur' that it should never come out of it. How often our folks have laughed over that story. Dear, dear, only to think we should have ever met again," and going to a trunk she took out of a bark-box a silver sixpence with a hole in it, by which it was suspended on a black ribbon.

"See, Sir, do you recollect that, you gave that to me for a keepsake? you said it was 'luck-money.'"

"Well," sais I, "if that don't pass, don't it? Oh, dear, how glad I am to see you, and yet how sad it makes me too! I am delighted at meetin' you so onexpected, and yet it makes me feel so old it scares me. It only seems as if it was the other day when I was at your father's house, and since then yon have growd up from a little girl into a tall handsome woman, got married, been settled, and are the mother of two children. Dear me, it's one o' the slaps old Father Time gives me in the face sometimes, as much as to hint, 'I say, Slick, you are gettin' too old now to talk so much nonsense as you do.' Well," sais I, "my words have come true about that silver sixpence."

"Come here, my little man," sais I to her pretty curly-headed little boy; "come here to me," and I resumed my seat. "Now," sais I, "my old friend, I will show you how that prophecy is fulfilled to this child. That clock I sold to Deacon Flint only cost me five dollars, and five dollars more would pay duty, freight, and carriage, and all expenses, which left five pounds clear profit, but that warn't the least share of the gain. It introduced my wares all round and through the country, and it would have paid me well if I had given him a dozen clocks for his patronage. I always thought I would return him that profit if I could see him, and as I can't do that I will give it to this little boy," so I took out my pocket-book and gave her twenty dollars for him.

"Come," sais I, "my friend, that relieves my conscience now of a debt of gratitude, for that is what I always intended to do if I got a chance."

Well, she took it, said it was very kind, and would be a great help to them; but that she didn't see what occasion there was to return the money, for it was nothing but the fair profit of a trade, and the clock was a most excellent one, kept capital time, and was still standing in the old house.

Thinks I to myself, "You have taught me two things, my pretty friend; first, how to give, and second, how to receive."

Well, we bid her good-bye, and after we had proceeded a short distance I returned.

Sais I, "Mrs Steele, there is one thing I wish you would do for me; is there any cranberries in this neighbourhood?"

"Plenty, Sir," she said; "at the head of this river there is an immense bog, chock full of them."

"Well," sais I, "there is nothin' in natur I am so fond of as them; I would give anything in the world for a few bushel. Tell your husband to employ some people to pick me this fall a barrel of them, and send them to me by one of our vessels, directed to me to Slickville, and when I go on board I will send you a barrel of flour to pay for it.

"Dear me, Sir," said she, "that's a great deal more than their value; why they ain't worth more than two dollars. We will pick them for you with great pleasure. We don't want pay."

"Ain't they worth that?" said I, "so much the better. Well, then, he can send me another barrel the next year. Why, they are as cheap as bull beef at a cent a pound. Good bye; tell him to be sure to come and see me the first time he goes to the States. Adieu."

"What do you think of that, Doctor?" said I, as we proceeded to the boat; "ain't that a nice woman? how cheerful and uncomplaining she is; how full of hope and confidence in the future. Her heart is in the right place, ain't it? My old mother had that same sort of contentment about her, only, perhaps, her resignation was stronger than her hope. When anything ever went wrong about our place to home to Slickville, she'd always say, 'Well, Sam, it might have been worse;' or, 'Sam, the darkest hour is always just afore day,' and so on. But Minister used to amuse me beyond anything, poor old soul. Once the congregation met and raised his wages from three to four hundred dollars a-year. Well, it nearly set him crazy; it bothered him so he could hardly sleep. So after church was over the next Sunday, he sais, 'My dear brethren, I hear you have raised my salary to four hundred dollars. I am greatly obliged to you for your kindness, but I can't think of taking it on no account. First, you can't afford it no how you can fix it, and I know it; secondly, I ain't worth it, and you know it; and thirdly, I am nearly tired to death collecting my present income; if I have to dun the same way for that, it will kill me. I can't stand it; I shall die. No, no; pay me what you allow me more punctually, and it is all I ask, or will ever receive.'

"But this poor woman is a fair sample of her class in this country; I do believe the only true friendship and hospitality is to be found among them. They ain't rich enough for ostentation, and are too equal in condition and circumstances for the action of jealousy or rivalry; I believe they are the happiest people in the world, but I know they are the kindest. Their feelings are not chilled by poverty or corrupted by plenty; their occupations preclude the hope of wealth and forbid the fear of distress. Dependent on each other for mutual assistance, in those things that are beyond individual exertion, they interchange friendly offices, which commencing in necessity, grow into habit, and soon become the 'labour of love.' They are poor, but not destitute, a region in my opinion in which the heart is more fully developed than in any other. Those who are situated like Steele and his wife, and commence a settlement in the woods, with the previous training they have received in the rural districts, begin at the right end; but they are the only people who are fit to be pioneers in the forest. How many there are who begin at the wrong end; perhaps there is no one subject on which men form such false notions as the mode of settling in the country, whether they are citizens of a colonial town, or strangers, from Great Britain.

"Look at that officer at Halifax: he is the best dressed man in the garrison; he is well got up always; he looks the gentleman every inch of him; how well his horses are groomed; how perfect his turn-out looks; how well appointed it is, as he calls it. He and his servant and his cattle are a little bit of fashion imported from the park, and astonish the natives. Look at his wife, ain't she a beautiful creature? they are proud of, and were just made for each other. This is not merely all external appearance either: they are accomplished people; they sing, they play, they sketch, they paint, they speak several languages, they are well read, they have many resources. Soldiering is dull, and, in time of peace, only a police service. It has disagreeable duties; it involves repeated removals, and the alternation of bad climates—from Hudson's Bay to Calcutta's Black Hole. The juniors of the regimental officers are mere boys, the seniors great empty cartouch-boxes, and the women have cabals,—there is a sameness even in its variety; but worse than all, it has no home—in short, the whole thing is a bore. It is better to sell out and settle in the province; land is cheap; their means are ample, and more than sufficient for the requirements of the colony; country society is stupid; there are no people fit to visit. It is best to be out of the reach of their morning calls and their gossip. A few miles back in the woods there is a splendid stream with a beautiful cascade on it; there is a magnificent lake communicating with several others that form a chain of many miles in extent. That swelling knoll that slopes so gently to the water would be such a pretty site for a cottage-orn, and the back-ground of hanging wood has an indescribable beauty in it, especially in the autumn, when the trees are one complete mass of variegated hues. He warms on the theme as he dilates on it, and sings as he turns to his pretty wife:

'I knew by the smoke that so gracefully curled Above the green elms that a cottage was near; And I said, if there's peace to be found in the world, The heart that is humble might hope for it here.'

"How sweet to plan, how pleasant to execute. How exciting to see it grow under one's own eye, the work of one's own hand, the creation of one's own taste. It is decided on; Dechamps retires, the papers go in, the hero goes out—what a relief! no inspection of soldiers' dirty kits—no parade by day—no guards nor rounds by night—no fatigue parties of men who never fatigue themselves—no stupid court-martial—no horrid punishments—no reviews to please a colonel who never is pleased, or a general who will swear—no marching through streets, to be stared at by housemaids from upper windows, and by dirty boys in the side paths—no procession to follow brass instruments, like the train of a circus—no bearded band-master with his gold cane to lead on his musicians, and no bearded white goat to march at the head of the regiment. All, all are gone.

"He is out of livery, he has played at soldiering long enough, he is tired of the game, he sells out, the man of business is called in, his lawyer, as he terms him, as if every gentleman kept a lawyer as he does a footman. He is in a hurry to have the purchase completed with as little delay as possible. But delays will occur, he is no longer a centurion and a man of authority, who has nothing to do but to say to this one, Come, and he cometh; and another, Go, and he goeth; Do this, and it is done. He can't put a lawyer under arrest, he is a man of arrests himself. He never heard of an attachment for contempt, and if he had, he couldn't understand it; for, when the devil was an attorney, he invented the term, as the softest and kindest name for the hardest and most unkind process there is. Attachment for contempt, what a mockery of Christian forgiveness!

"A conveyancer is a slow coach, he must proceed cautiously, he has a long journey to take, he has to travel back to a grant from the crown, through all the 'mesne' conveyances. He don't want a mean conveyance, he will pay liberally if it is only done quickly; and is informed 'mesne' in law signifies intermediate. It is hard to say what the language of law does mean. Then there are searches to be made in the record offices, and the—damn the searches, for he is in a hurry and loses his patience—search at the bankers, and all will be found right. Then there are releases and assignments and discharges. He can stand it no longer, he releases his lawyer, discharges him, and assigns another, who hints, insinuates, he don't charge; but gives him to understand his predecessor was idle. He will lose no time, indeed he has no time to lose, he is so busy with other clients' affairs, and is as slow as the first man was.

"But at last it is done; the titles are completed. He is presented with a huge pile of foolscap paper, very neatly folded, beautifully engrossed and endorsed in black letters, and nicely tied up with red tape, which, with sundry plans, surveys, and grants, are secured in a large despatch box, on which are inscribed in gold letters the 'Epaigwit estate.' It is a pretty Indian word that, it means the 'home on the wave.' It is the original name of that gem of the western ocean which the vulgar inhabitants have christened Prince Edward's Island.

"But what can you expect of a people whose governor calls the gentry 'the upper crust of society,' and who in their turn see an affinity between a Scotch and a Roman fiddle, and denounce him as a Nero? But then who looks, as he says, for taste in a colony? it is only us Englishmen who have any. Yes, he calls this place 'Epaigwit.' It has a distingu appearance on his letters. It has now a name, the next thing is 'a local habitation.' Well, we won't stop to describe it, but it has an elegant drawing-room, if there was only company to collect in it, a spacious dining-room, and though only two plates are on the table there is room for twenty, and a charming study, only awaiting his leisure to enjoy it, and so on.

"It is done and the design carried out, though not completed; prudence forbids a further expenditure just now. It has cost five times as much as was contemplated, and is not worth a tenth part of the outlay, still it is very beautiful. Strangers go to see it, and every one pronounces it the prettiest thing in the Lower provinces. There have been some little drawbacks, but they are to be expected in a colony, and among the Goths and Vandals who live there. The contractors have repudiated their agreement on account of the extensive alterations made in the design and the nature of the work, and he has found there is law in the country if not justice. The servants find it too lonely, they have no taste for the beauties of nature, and remain without work, or quit without notice. If he refuses to pay he is sued, if he pays he is cheated. The house leaks, for the materials are green; the chimneys smoke, for the drafts are in the wrong place. The children are tormented by black flies and musquitoes, and their eyes are so swelled they can't see. The bears make love to his sheep, and the minks and foxes devour his poultry. The Indians who come to beg are supposed to come to murder, and the negroes who come to sell wild berries are suspected of coming to steal. He has no neighbours, he did not desire any, and if a heavy weight has to be lifted, it is a little, but not much, inconvenience to send to the town for assistance; and the people go cheerfully, for they have only five miles to come, and five to return, and they are not detained more than five minutes, for he never asks them into his house. The butcher won't come so far to carry his meat, nor the baker his bread, nor the postman to deliver his letters.

"The church is too far off, and there is no school. But the clergyman is not fit to be heard, he is such a drone in the pulpit; and it is a sweet employment to train one's own children, who thus avoid contamination by not associating with vulgar companions.

"These are trifling vexations, and what is there in this life that has not some little drawback? But there is something very charming in perfect independence, in living for each other, and in residing in one of the most delightful spots in America, surrounded by the most exquisite scenery that was ever beheld. There is one thing however that is annoying. The country people will not use or adopt that pretty word Epaigwit, 'the home of the wave,' which rivals in beauty of conception an eastern expression. The place was originally granted to a fellow of the name of Umber, who was called after the celebrated navigator Cook. These two words when united soon became corrupted, and the magnificent sheet of water was designated 'the Cucumber Lake,' while its splendid cataract, known in ancient days by the Indians as the 'Pan-ook,' or 'the River's Leap,' is perversely called by way of variation 'the Cowcumber Falls;' can anything be conceived more vulgar or more vexatious, unless it be their awkward attempt at pronunciation, which converts Epaigwit into 'a pig's wit,' and Pan-ook into 'Pond-hook?'

"But then, what can you expect of such boors, and who cares, or what does it matter? for after all, if you come to that, the 'Cumberland Lakes' is not very euphonious, as he calls it, whatever that means. He is right in saying it is a beautiful place, and, as he often observes, what an immense sum of money it would be worth if it were only in England! but the day is not far distant, now that the Atlantic is bridged by steamers, when 'bag-men' will give place to tourists, and 'Epaigwit' will be the 'Killarney' of America. He is quite right, that day will come, and so will the millennium, but it is a good way off yet; and dear old Minister used to say there was no dependable authority that it ever would come at all.

"Now and then a brother officer visits him. Elliott is there now, not the last of the Elliotts, for there is no end of them, and though only a hundred of them have been heard of in the world, there are a thousand well known to the Treasury. But he is the last chum from his regiment he will ever see. As they sit after dinner he hands the olives to his friend, and suddenly checks himself, saying, I forgot, you never touch the 'after-feed.' Then he throws up both eyes and hands, and affects to look aghast at the mistake. 'Really,' he says, 'I shall soon become us much of a boor as the people of this country. I hear nothing now but mowing, browsing, and 'after-feed,' until at last I find myself using the latter word for 'dessert.' He says it prettily and acts it well, and although his wife has often listened to the same joke, she looks as if it would bear repetition, and her face expresses great pleasure. Poor Dechamps, if your place is worth nothing, she at least is a treasure above all price.

"Presently Elliott sais, 'By-the-by, Dechamps, have you heard we are ordered to Corfu, and embark immediately?'

"Dear me, what magic there is in a word. Sometimes it discloses in painful distinctness the past, at others it reveals a prophetic page of the future; who would ever suppose there was anything in that little insignificant word to occasion a thought, unless it was whether it is pronounced Corfoo or Corfew, and it's so little consequence which, I always give it the go by and say Ionian Isles.

"But it startled Dechamps. He had hoped before he left the army to have been ordered there, and from thence to have visited the classic coasts of Greece. Alas, that vision has gone, and there is a slight sigh of regret, for possession seldom equals expectation, and always cloys. He can never more see his regiment, they have parted for ever. Time and distance have softened some of the rougher features of military life. He thinks of the joyous days of youth, the varied scenes of life, his profession exposed to his view, and the friends he has left behind him. The service he thinks not so intolerable after all, and though regimental society is certainly not what he should choose, especially as a married man, yet, except in a rollicking corps, it may at least negatively be said to be 'not bad.'

"From this review of the past he turns to the prospect before him. But he discerns something that he does not like to contemplate, a slight shadow passes over his face, and he asks Elliott to pass the wine. His wife, with the quickness of perception so natural to a woman, sees at once what is passing in his mind; for similar, but deeper, far deeper thoughts, like unbidden guests, have occupied hers many an anxious hour. Poor thing, she at once perceives her duty and resolves to fulfil it. She will be more cheerful. She at least will never murmur. After all, Doctor, it's no great exaggeration to call a woman that has a good head and kind heart, and the right shape, build, and bearings, an angel, is it? But let us mark their progress, for we shall be better able to judge then.

"Let us visit Epaigwit again in a few years. Who is that man near the gate that looks unlike a servant, unlike a farmer, unlike a gentleman, unlike a sportsman, and yet has a touch of all four characters about him? He has a shocking bad hat on but what's the use of a good hat in the woods, as poor Jackson said, where there is no one to see it. He has not been shaved since last sheep-shearing, and has a short black pipe in his mouth, and the tobacco smells like nigger-head or pig-tail. He wears a coarse check shirt without a collar, a black silk neck-cloth frayed at the edge, that looks like a rope of old ribbons. His coat appears as if it had once been new, but had been on its travels, until at last it had got pawned to a Jew at Rag-alley. His waistcoat was formerly buff, but now resembles yellow flannel, and the buttons, though complete in number are of different sorts. The trowsers are homespun, much worn, and his boots coarse enough to swap with a fisherman for mackarel. His air and look betokens pride rendered sour by poverty.

"But there is something worse than all this, something one never sees without disgust or pain, because it is the sure precursor of a diseased body, a shattered intellect, and voluntary degradation. There is a bright red colour that extends over the whole face, and reaches behind the ears. The whiskers are prematurely tipt with white, as if the heated skin refused to nourish them any longer. The lips are slightly swelled, and the inflamed skin indicates inward fever, while the eyes are bloodshot, the under lids distended, and incline to shrink from contact with the heated orbs they were destined to protect. He is a dram-drinker; and the poison that he imbibes with New England rum is as fatal, and nearly as rapid in its destruction, as strikline.

"Who is he; can you guess? do you give it up? He is that handsome officer, the Laird of Epaigwit as the Scotch would say, the general as we should call him, for we are liberal of titles, and the man that lives at Cowcumber Falls, as they say here. Poor fellow, he has made the same discovery Sergeant Jackson did, that there is no use of good things in the woods where there is no one to see them. He is about to order you off his premises, but it occurs to him that would be absurd, for he has nothing now worth seeing. He scrutinises you however to ascertain if he has ever seen you before. He fears recognition, for he dreads both your pity and your ridicule; so he strolls leisurely back to the house with a certain bull-dog air of defiance.

"Let us follow him thither; but before we enter, observe there is some glass out of the window, and its place supplied by shingles. The stanhope is in the coach-house, but the by-road was so full of stumps and cradle-hills, it was impossible to drive in it, and the moths have eaten the lining out. The carriage has been broken so often it is not worth repairing, and the double harness has been cut up to patch the tacklin' of the horse-team. The shrubbery has been browsed away by the cattle, and the rank grass has choked all the rose bushes and pretty little flowers. What is the use of these things in the woods? That remark was on a level with the old dragoon's intellect; but I am surprised that this intelligent officer; this man of the world, this martinet, didn't also discover, that he who neglects himself soon becomes so careless as to neglect his other duties, and that to lose sight of them is to create and invite certain ruin. But let us look at the interior.

"There are some pictures on the walls, and there are yellow stains where others hung. Where are they? for I think I heard a man say he bought them on account of their handsome frames, from that crack-brained officer at Cucumber Lake; and he shut his eye, and looked knowing and whispered, 'Something wrong there, had to sell out of the army; some queer story about another wife still living; don't know particulars.' Poor Dechamps, you are guiltless of that charge at any rate, to my certain knowledge; but how often does slander bequeath to folly that which of right belongs to crime! The nick-knacks, the antique china, the Apostles' spoons, the queer little old-fashioned silver ornaments, the French clock, the illustrated works, and all that sort of thing,—all, all are gone. The housemaids broke some, the children destroyed others, and the rest were sent to auction, merely to secure their preservation. The paper is stained in some places, in others has peeled off; but where under the sun have all the accomplishments gone to?

"The piano got out of tune, and there was nobody to put it in order: it was no use; the strings were taken out, and the case was converted into a cupboard. The machinery of the harp became rusty, and the cords were wanted for something else. But what is the use of these things in the woods where there is nobody to see them? But here is Mrs Dechamps. Is it possible! My goody gracious as I am a living sinner! Well I never in all my born days! what a dreadful wreck! you know how handsome she was. Well, I won't describe her now, I pity her too much. You know I said they were counterparts, just made for each other, and so they were; but they are of different sexes, made of different stuff, and trouble has had a different effect on them. He has neglected himself, and she is negligent of her dress too, but not in the same way. She is still neat, but utterly regardless of what her attire is; but let it be what it may, and let her put on what she will, still she looks like a lady. But her health is gone, and her spirits too; and in their place a little, delicate hectic spot has settled in her cheek, beautiful to look at, but painful to think of. This faint blush is kindly sent to conceal consumption, and the faint smile is assumed to hide the broken heart. If it didn't sound unfeelin', I should say she was booked for an early train; but I think so if I don't say so. The hour is fixed, the departure certain; she is glad to leave Epaigwit.

"Somehow though I must say I am a little disappointed in her. She was a soldier's wife; I thought she was made of better stuff, and if she had died would have at least died game. Suppose they have been unfortunate in pitching their tent 'on the home of the wave,' and got aground, and their effects have been thrown overboard; what is that, after all? Thousands hare done the same; there is still hope for them. They are more than a match for these casualties; how is it she has given up so soon? Well, don't allude to it, but there is a sad tragical story connected with that lake. Do you recollect that beautiful curly-headed child, her eldest daughter, that she used to walk with at Halifax? Well, she grew up into a magnificent girl; she was full of health and spirits, and as fleet and as wild as a hare. She lived in the woods and on the lake. She didn't shoot, and she didn't fish, but she accompanied those who did. The beautiful but dangerous bark canoe was her delight; she never was happy but when she was in it. Tom Hodges, the orphan boy they had brought with them from the regiment, who alone of all their servants had remained faithful in their voluntary exile, was the only one permitted to accompany her; for he was so careful, so expert, and so good a swimmer. Alas! one night the canoe returned not. What a long, eager, anxious night was that! but towards noon the next day the upturned bark drifted by the shore, and then it was but too evident that that sad event which the anxious mother had so often dreaded and predicted had come to pass. They had met a watery grave. Often and often were the whole chain of lakes explored, but their bodies were never found. Entangled in the long grass and sunken driftwood that covered the bottom of these basins, it was not likely they would ever rise to the surface.

"It was impossible to contemplate that fearful lake without a shudder. They must leave the place soon and for ever. Oh, had Emily's life been spared, she could have endured any and everything for her sake. Poor thing! how little she knew what she was a talking about, as she broke the seal of a letter in a well-known hand. Her life was spared; it never was endangered. She had eloped with Tom Hodges—she had reached Boston—she was very happy—Tom was all kindness to her. She hoped they would forgive her and write to her, for they were going to California, where they proposed to be married as soon as they arrived. Who ever appealed to a mother for forgiveness in vain? Everything appeared in a new light. The child had been neglected; she ought not to have been suffered to spend so much of her time with that boy; both her parents had strangely forgotten that they had grown up, and—it was no use to say more. Her father had locked her out of his heart, and thrown away the key for ever. He wished she had been drowned, for in that case she would have died innocent; and he poured out such a torrent of imprecations, that the poor mother was terrified lest, as the Persians say, these curses, like fowls, might return home to roost, or like prayers, might be heard, and procure more than was asked.

"You may grieve over the conduct of a child, and lament its untimely death, and trust in God for his mercy; but no human being can reverse the order of things, and first mourn the decease of a child, and then grieve for its disgraceful life; for there is a grave again to be dug, and who knoweth whether the end shall be peace? We can endure much, but there is a load that crusheth. Poor thing! you were right, and your husband wrong. Woman-like, your judgment was correct, your impulses good, and your heart in the right place. The child was not to be blamed, but its parents. You could, if you thought proper, give up society and live for each other; you had proved it, and knew how hollow and false it was; but your children could not resign what they never had, nor ignore feelings which God had implanted within them. Nature has laws which must and will be obeyed. The swallow selects its mate, builds its nest, and occupies itself in nurturing its young. The heart must have something to love, and if it is restricted in its choice, it will bestow its affections not on what it would approve and select, but upon what it may chance to find; you are not singular in your domestic affliction; it is the natural consequence of your isolation, and I have known it happen over and over again.

"Now, Doctor, let us return, after the lapse of a few years, as I did, to Epaigwit. I shall never forget the impression it made upon me. It was about this season of the year I went there to fish, intending to spend the night in a camp, so as to be ready for the morning sport: 'Why, where am I?' sais I to myself, when I reached the place. 'Why, surely this ain't Cucumber Lake! where is that beautiful hanging wood, the temptation in the wilderness that ruined poor Dechamps? gone, not cleared, but destroyed; not subdued to cultivation, but reduced to desolation.' Tall gaunt black trees stretch out their withered arms on either side, as if balancing themselves against a fall, while huge trunks lie scattered over the ground, where they fell in their fierce conflict with the devouring fire that overthrew them. The ground is thickly covered with ashes, and large white glistening granite rocks, which had formerly been concealed by moss, the creeping evergreen, and the smiling, blushing may-flower, now rear their cold snowy heads that contrast so strangely with the funereal pall that envelopes all around them. No living thing is seen there, nor bird, nor animal, nor insect, nor verdant plant; even the hardy fire-weed has not yet ventured to intrude on this scene of desolation, and the woodpecker, afraid of the atmosphere which charcoal has deprived of vitality, shrinks back in terror when he approaches it. Poor Dechamps, had you remained to witness this awful conflagration, you would have observed in those impenetrable boulders of granite a type of the hard, cold, unfeeling world around you, and in that withered and blackened forest, a fitting emblem of your blighted and blasted prospects.

"But if the trees had disappeared from that side of the lake, they had been reproduced on the other. The fields, the lawn, and the garden were over-run with a second growth of wood that had nearly concealed the house from view. It was with some difficulty I forced my way through the chaparel (thicket), which was rendered almost impenetrable by thorns, Virginia creepers, honeysuckles, and sweet-briars, that had spread in the wildest profusion. The windows, doors, mantle-pieces, bannisters, and every portable thing had been removed from the house by the blacks, who had squatted in the neighbourhood; even the chimneys had been taken down for the bricks. The swallows were the sole tenants; the barn had fallen a prey to decay and storms, and the roof lay comparatively uninjured at some distance on the ground. A pair of glistening eyes, peeping through a broken board at the end, showed me that the foxes had appropriated it to their own use. The horse-stable, coach-house, and other buildings were in a similar state of dilapidation.

"I returned to the camp, and learned that Mrs Dechamps was reposing in peace in the village church-yard, the children had been sent to England to their relatives, and the captain was residing in California with his daughter and Tom Hodges, who were the richest people in St Francisco."

"What a sad picture!" said the doctor.

"Well, it's true though," said I, "ain't it?"

"I never was at Cucumber Lake," said he, smiling, "but I have known several similar failures. The truth is, Mr Slick, though I needn't tell you, for you know better than I do, our friend Steele began at the right and Dechamps at the wrong end. The poor native ought always to go to the woods, the emigrant or gentleman never; the one is a rough and ready man; he is at home with an axe, and is conversant as well with the privations and requirements as with the expedients and shifts of forest life; his condition is ameliorated every year, and in his latter days he can afford to rest from his labours; whereas, if he buys what is called a half-improved farm, and is unable to pay for it at the time of the purchase, the mortgage is almost sure to ruin him at last. Now a man of means who retires to the country is wholly unfit for a pioneer, and should never attempt to become one; he should purchase a farm ready made to his hands, and then he has nothing to do but to cultivate and adorn it. It takes two generations, at least, to make such a place as he requires. The native, again is one of a class, and the most necessary one too in the country; the people sympathise with him, aid and encourage him. The emigrant-gentleman belongs to no class, and wins no affection; he is kindly received and judiciously advised by people of his own standing in life, but he affects to consider their counsel obtrusive and their society a bore; he is therefore suffered to proceed his own way, which they all well know, as it has been so often travelled before, leads to ruin. They pity, but they can't assist him. Yes, yes, your sketch of 'Epaigwit' is so close to nature, I shouldn't wonder if many a man who reads it should think he sees the history of his own place under the name of 'the Cucumber Lake.'"



CHAPTER XXV. THE RECALL.

In compiling this Journal, Squire, my object has been less to give you the details of my cruise, than to furnish you with my remarks on men and things in general. Climate, locality, and occupation form or vary character, but man is the same sort of critter everywhere. To know him thoroughly, he must be studied in his various aspects. When I learned drawing, I had an India-rubber figure, with springs in it, and I used to put it into all sorts of attitudes. Sometimes it had its arms up, and sometimes down, now a-kimbo, and then in a boxing posture. I stuck out its legs or made it stand bolt upright, and put its head every way I could think of, and so on. It taught me to draw, and showed me the effect of light and shade. So in sketching human character, feelings, prejudices, and motives of action, I have considered man at one time as a politician, a preacher, or a trader, and at another as a countryman or a citizen, as ignorant or wise, and so on. In this way I soon learned to take his gauge as you do a cask of spirits, and prove his strength or weakness by the bead I could raise on him.

If I know anything of these matters, and you seem to consait I do, why I won't act "Peter Funk"1 to myself, but this I will say, "Human natur is my weakness." Now I think it best to send you only such portions of my Journal as will interest you, for a mere diary of a cruise is a mere nothing. So I skip over my sojourn at Canzeau, and a trip the doctor and I took to Prince Edward's Island, as containing nothing but a sort of ship's log, and will proceed to tell you about our sayings and doings at that celebrated place Louisburg, in Cape Breton, which was twice besieged and taken, first by our colony-forefathers from Boston, and then by General Wolfe, the Quebec hero, and of which nothing now remains but its name, which you will find in history, and its harbour, which you will find in the map. The French thought building a fortress was colonization, and the English that blowing it up was the right way to settle the country. The world is wiser now.

1 At petty auctions in the States, a person is employed to bid up articles, in order to raise their price. Such a person is called a Peter Funk, probably from that name having frequently been given when things were bought in. In short, it is now used as a "puffer."—BARTLETT.

As we approached the place the Doctor said, "You see, Mr Slick, the entrance to Louisburg is pointed out to voyagers coming from the eastward, by the ruins of an old French lighthouse, and the lantern of a new one, on the rocky wall of the north shore, a few minutes after approaching which the mariner shoots from a fretful sea into the smooth and capacious port. The ancient ruins display even yet the most attractive object to the eye. The outline of these neglected mounds, you observe, is boldly marked against the sky, and induces a visit to the spot where the fortress once stood. Louisburg is everywhere covered with a mantle of turf, and without the assistance of a native it is not easy to discover even the foundations of the public buildings. Two or three casemates still remain, appearing like the mouths of huge ovens, surmounted by a great mass of earth and stone. These caverns, originally the safeguards of powder and other combustible munitions of war, now serve to shelter the flocks of sheep that graze upon the grass that conceals them. The floors are rendered nearly impassable by the ordure of these animals, but the vaulted ceilings are adorned by dependent stalactites, like icicles in shape, but not in purity of colour, being of a material somewhat similar to oyster shells. The mass of stone^1 and brick that composed the buildings, and which is now swept so completely from its site, has been distributed along the shores of America, as far as Halifax and Boston, having been successively carried away for the erections in those places and the intermediate coast, which contains many a chimney bearing the memorials of Louisburg. The remains of the different batteries on the island and round the harbour are still shown by the inhabitants, as well as of the wharves, stockade, and sunken ships of war. On gaining the walls above the town, they are found to consist of a range of earthen fortifications with projecting angles, and extending as already mentioned from the harbour to the sea, interrupted at intervals by large pits, said to have been produced by the efforts of the captors to blow up the walls. From these heights, the glacis slopes away to the edge of the bog outside, forming a beautiful level walk, though now only enjoyed by the sheep, being, like the walls, carpeted by short turf. At the termination of this line of fortification on the sea-shore, is a huge and uncouth black rock, which appears to have been formerly quarried for building stone, large quantities ready hewn being still scattered round it, and gathered in masses as if prepared for that use.

1 See Haliburton's "History of Nova Scotia."

"The prospect from the brow of the dilapidated ramparts is one of the most impressive that the place affords. Looking to the south-west over the former city, the eye wanders upon the interminable ocean, its blue rolling waves occupying three-fourths of the scene, and beyond them, on the verge of the horizon, a dense bank of fog sweeps along with the prevailing S.W. wind, precluding all hopes of discerning any vista beyond that curtain. Turning landwards towards the south-west, over the spacious bog that lies at the foot of the walls, the sight is met by a range of low wood in the direction of Gabarus, and can penetrate no further. The harbour is the only prospect to the northward, and immediately in its rear the land rises so as to prevent anymore distant view, and even the harbour appears dwindled to a miniature of itself, being seen in the same picture with the mighty ocean that nearly surrounds the beholder. The character of the whole scene is melancholy, presenting the memorials of former life and population, contrasted with its present apparent isolation from the natives of the earth. The impression is not weakened by the sight of the few miserable huts scattered along the shores of the port, and the little fishing vessels, scarcely perceptible in the mountain-swell of the ocean; they serve but to recall painfully the images of elegant edifices that once graced the foreground, and of proud flags that waved upon the face of that heaving deep.

"It is not easy to give a reason for the continued desolation of Louisburg. A harbour opening directly upon the sea, whence egress is unobstructed and expeditious, and return equally convenient at all seasons; excellent fishing grounds at the very entrance; space on shore for all the operations of curing the fish; every advantage for trade and the fisheries is offered in vain. The place would appear to be shunned by tacit consent. The shallops come from Arichet and St Peter's Bay to fish at its very mouth, but no one sets up his establishment there. The merchants resort to every station in its vicinity, to Main-a-Dieu, the Bras d'Or, St Anne, Inganish, nay, even Cape North, places holding out no advantage to compare with those of Louisburg, yet no one ventures there. The fatality that hangs over places of fallen celebrity seems to press heavily on this once valued spot."

"Massa Doctor," said Sorrow, when he heard this description, "peers to me, dem English did gib de French goss widout sweetenin', most particular jess dat are a nateral fac. By golly, but dey was strange folks boff on 'em. Ki dey must been gwine stracted, sure as you born, when dey was decomposed (angry) wid each other, to come all de way out here to fight. Lordy gracious, peers to me crossin' de sea might a cooled them, sposin' dar hair was rumpled."

"You are right, Sorrow," said I; "and, Doctor, niggers and women often come to a right conclusion, though they cannot give the right reasons for it, don't they?"

"Oh, oh, Mr Slick," said he, "pray don't class ladies and niggers together. Oh, I thought you had more gallantry about you than that."

"Exactly," sais I, "there is where the shoe pinches. You are a so far and no further emancipationist. You will break up the social system of the south, deprive the planter of his slave, and set the nigger free; but you will not admit him to your family circle, associate with him, or permit him to intermarry with your daughter. Ah, Doctor, you can emancipate him, but you can't emancipate yourself. You are willing to give him the liberty of a dog; he may sleep in your stable, exercise himself in the coachyard, and may stand or run behind your carriage, but he must not enter the house, for he is offensive, nor eat at your table, for the way he devours his food is wolfish; you unchain him, and that is all. But before the collar was unfastened he was well and regularly fed, now he has to forage for it; and if he can't pay for his grub, he can and will steal it. Abolition has done great things for him. He was once a life-labourer on a plantation in the south, he is now a prisoner for life in a penitentiary in the north, or an idle vagrant, and a shameless, houseless beggar. The fruit of cant is indeed bitter. The Yankees emancipated their niggers because it didn't pay to keep slaves. They now want the southern planters to liberate theirs for conscience sake. But here we are on the beach; let us land."

After taking a survey of the scene from the sight of the old town, we sat down on one of the eastern mounds, and the doctor continued his account of the place. "It took the French twenty-fire years to erect Louisburg," he said, "and though not completed according to the original design, it cost not less than thirty millions of livres. It was environed, two miles and a half in circumference, with a stone wall from thirty to thirty-six feet high, and a ditch eighty feet wide. There was, as you will see, six bastions and eight batteries, with embrasures for 148 cannon. On the island at the entrance of the harbour, which we just passed, was a battery of thirty twenty-eight pounders, and at the bottom of the port another mounting thirty-eight heavy guns. In 1745, a plan for taking it was conceived by a colonial-lawyer, a Governor of Massachusetts, and executed by a body of New England volunteers, led on by a country trader. History can hardly furnish such another instance of courage and conduct in an undisciplined body, laying siege to a regular constructed fortress like this. Commodore Warren, when first applied to for assistance, declined to afford it, as well because he had no orders as that he thought the enterprise a rash one. He was however at last instructed from home to co-operate with the Yankee troops, and arrived in season to witness the progress of the siege, and receive the whole of the honour which was so exclusively due to the Provincials. This act of insolence and injustice on the part of the British was never forgotten by your countrymen, but the memory of favours is short-lived, and a similar distribution of rewards has lately surprised and annoyed the Canadians. The colonist who raised the militia and saved Canada, as you have justly remarked elsewhere, was knighted, while he who did no more than his duty as an officer in the army, was compensated for two or three little affairs in which the soldiers were engaged by a coronet and a pension."

"Exactly," sais I, "what's sauce for the goose ought to be sauce for the gander; but it seems English geese are all swans."

"Well, in 1758, it was again taken by the English, who attacked it with an immense and overpowering armament, consisting of 151 sail, and 14,000 men. Profiting by the experience of the Provincials, they soon reduced the place, which it is astonishing could have made any resistance at all against such an overwhelming force. Still, this attack was mostly an English one; and though it dwindles into utter insignificance when compared with the previous capture by the colonists, occasioned a great outbreak of national pride. The French colours were carried in pompous parade, escorted by detachments of horse and foot-guards, with kettle-drums and trumpets, from the palace of Kensington to St Paul's Cathedral, where they were deposited as trophies, under a discharge of cannon, and other noisy expressions of triumph and exultation. Indeed, the public rejoicings for the conquest of Louisburg were diffused through every part of the British dominions; and addresses of congratulation were presented to the king by a great number of flourishing towns and corporations."

"Twenty-five years afterwards the colonists, who were denied the credit of their gallant enterprise, made good their claim to it by conquering those who boasted that they were the conquerors themselves."

"I am glad to hear you say so, Doctor," said I, "for I concur in it all. The English are liberal, but half the time they ain't just. Spendin' money in colonies is one thing, but givin' them fair play is another. The army complains that all commendation and promotion is reserved for the staff. Provincials complain of similar injustice, but there is this wide difference, the one has the 'Times' for its advocate, the other is unheard or unheeded. An honest statesman will not refuse to do justice—a willy poilitician will concede with grace what he knows he must soon yield to compulsion. The old Tory was a man after all, every inch of him."

"Now," sais the doctor, "that remark reminds me of what I have long intended to ask you if I got a chance. How is it, Mr Slick, that you, who are a republican, whenever you speak of England are so conservative? It always seemed to me as if it warn't quite natural. If I didn't know you, I should say your books were written by a colonist who had used your name for a medium for giving his own ideas."

"Well," sais I, "Doctor, I am glad you asked me, for I have thought myself it wasn't unlikely some folks would fall into that mistake. I'll tell you how this comes, though I wouldn't take the trouble to enlighten others, for it kinder amuses me to see a fellow find a mare's nest with a tee-hee's egg in it. First, I believe that a republic is the only form of government suited to us, or practicable in North America. A limited monarchy could not exist in the States, for royalty and aristocracy never had an original root there. A military or despotic one could be introduced, because a standing army can do anything, but it couldn't last long. Liberty is too deeply seated, and too highly prized, to be suppressed for any length of time.

"Now, I like a republic, but I hate a democracy. The wit of man never could have devised anything more beautiful, better balanced, and more skilfully checked, than our constitution is, or rather was; but every change we make is for the worse. I am therefore a conservative at home. On the other hand, the English constitution is equally well suited to the British. It is admirably adapted to the genius, traditions, tastes, and feelings of the people. They are not fitted for a republic. They tried it once, and it failed; and if they were to try it again it would not succeed. Every change they make is also for the worse. In talking therefore as I do, I only act and talk consistently, when I say I am a conservative abroad also.

"Conservatism, both in the States and in Great Britain, when rightly understood, has a fixed principle of action, which is to conserve the constitution of the country, and not subvert it. Now, liberalism everywhere is distinguished by having no principle. In England it longs for office, and sacrifices everything to it. It does nothing but pander. It says religion is a matter of taste, leave it to itself and it will take care of itself; now that maxim was forced on us by necessity, for at the Revolution we scarcely had an Episcopal church, it was so small as hardly to deserve the name. But in England it is an unconstitutional, irrational, and monstrous maxim. Still it suits the views of Romanists (although they hold no such doctrine themselves), for it is likely to hand over the church revenues in Ireland to them. It also suits Dissenters, for it will relieve them of church rates; and it meets the wishes of the republican party, because they know no church and no bishop will soon lead to no monarch. Again, it says, enlarge the franchise, so as to give an increase of voters; that doctrine suits all those sections also, for it weakens both monarchy and aristocracy. Then again, it advocates free-trade, for that weakens the landed interest, and knocks from under nobility one of its best pillars. To lower the influence of the church pleases all political Come-outers, some for one, and some for another reason. Their views are not identical, but it is for their interest to unite. One advocates it because it destroys Protestantism as a principle of the constitution, another because the materials of this fortress, like those of Louisburg, may be useful for erecting others, and among them conventicles.

"Then there is no truth in liberalism. When Irish emancipation was discussed, it was said, Pass that and you will hear no more grievances, it will tend to consolidate the church and pacify the people. It was no sooner granted, than ten bishopricks were suppressed, and monster meetings paraded through and terrified the land. One cardinal came in place of ten Protestant prelates, and so on. So liberalism said Pass the Reform Bill, and all England will be satisfied; well, though it has not worked well for the kingdom, it has done wonders for the radical party, and now another and more extensive one is promised. The British Lion has been fed with living raw meat, and now roars for more victims. It ain't easy to onseat liberals, I tell you, for they know how to pander. If you promise power to those who have none, you must have the masses with you. I could point you out some fellows that are sure to win the dead^1 heads, the dough2 boys, the numerous body that is on the fence,3 and political come-outers.4 There is at this time a postponed Reform Bill. The proposer actually cried when it was deferred to another session. It nearly broke his heart. He couldn't bear that the public should have it to say, 'They had seen the elephant.'"

1 Dead heads may perhaps be best explained by substituting the words "the unproductive class of operatives," such as spend their time in ale-houses; demagogues, the men who, with free tickets, travel in steam-boats, frequent theatres, tavern-keepers, &c.

2 Pliable politicians, men who are accessible to personal influences or considerations.

3 A man is said to be on a fence who is ready to join the strongest party because he who sits on a fence is in a position to jump down, with equal facility, on either side of it.

4 "Political come-outers" are the loose fish of all parties. Dissenters from their own side.—See Bartlett's definitions.

"Seeing the elephant," said the doctor, "was he so large a man as that?"

"Lord bless you," sais I, "no, he is a man that thinks he pulls the wires, like one of Punch's small figures, but the wires pull him and set him in motion. It is a cant term we have, and signifies 'going out for wool and coming back shorn.' Yes, he actually shed tears, like a cook peelin' onions. He reminded me of a poor fellow at Slickville, who had a family of twelve small children. His wife took a day, and died one fine morning, leaving another youngster to complete the baker's dozen, and next week that dear little innocent died too. He took on dreadfully about it. He boo-hooed right out, which is more than the politicioner did over his chloroformed bill.

"'Why,' sais I, 'Jeddediah, you ought to be more of a man than to take on that way. With no means to support your family of poor helpless little children, with no wife to look after them, and no airthly way to pay a woman to dry-nurse and starve the unfortunate baby, it's a mercy it did die, and was taken out of this wicked world.'

"'I know it and feel it, Mr Sam,' said he, lookin' up in a way that nobody but him could look, 'but—'

"'But what?' sais I.

"'Why,' says he, 'but it don't do to say so, you know.'

"Jist then some of the neighbours came in, when he burst out wuss than before, and groaned like a thousand sinners at a camp-meetin'.

"Most likely the radical father of the strangled Reform Bill comforted himself with the same reflection, only he thought it wouldn't do to say so. Crocodiles can cry when they are hungry, but when they do it's time to vamose the poke-loken,1 that's a fact. Yes, yes, they understand these things to England as well as we do, you may depend. They warn't born yesterday. But I won't follow it out. Liberalism is playing the devil both with us and the British. Change is going on with railroad haste in America, but in England, though it travels not so fast, it never stops, and like a steam-packet that has no freight, it daily increases its rate of speed as it advances towards the end of the voyage. Now you have my explanation, Doctor, why I am a conservative on principle, both at home and abroad."

1 Poke-loken, a marshy place, or stagnant pool, connected with a river.

"Well," said the doctor," that is true enough as far as England is concerned, but still I don't quite understand how it is, as a republican, you are so much of a conservative at home, for your reasons appear to me to be more applicable to Britain than to the United States."

"Why," sais I, "my good friend, liberalism is the same thing in both countries, though its work and tactics may be different. It is destructive but not creative. It tampers with the checks and balances of our constitution. It flatters the people by removing the restraints they so wisely placed on themselves to curb their own impetuosity. It has shaken the stability of the judiciary by making the experiment of electing the judges. It has abolished equity, in name, but infused it so strongly in the administration of the law, that the distinctive boundaries are destroyed, and the will of the court is now substituted for both. In proportion as the independence of these high officers is diminished, their integrity may be doubted. Elected, and subsequently sustained by a faction, they become its tools, and decide upon party and not legal grounds. In like manner, wherever the franchise was limited, the limit is attempted to be removed. We are, in fact, fast merging into a mere pure democracy,1 for the first blow on the point of the wedge that secures the franchise, weakens it so that it is sure to come out at last. Our liberals know this as well your British Gerrymanderers do."

1 De Tocqueville, who has written incomparably the best work that has ever appeared on the United States, makes the following judicious remarks on this subject: "Where a nation modifies the elective qualification, it may easily be foreseen, that sooner or later that qualification will be abolished. There is no more invariable rule in the history of society. The further electoral rights are extended, the more is felt the need of extending them; for after each concession, the strength of the democracy increases, and its demands increase with its strength. The ambition of those who are below the appointed rate is irritated, in exact proportion of the number of those who are above it. The exception at last becomes the rule, concession follows concession, and no step can be made, short of universal suffrage."

"Genymanderers,"1 he said, "who in the world are they? I never heard of them before."

1 This term came into use in the year 1811, in Massachusetts, where, for several years previous, the federal and democratic parties stood nearly equal. In that year, the democratic party, having a majority in the Legislature, determined so to district the State anew, that those sections which gave a large number of federal votes might be brought into one district. The result was, that the democratic party carried everything before them at the following election, and filled every office in the State, although it appeared by the votes returned, that nearly two-thirds of the votes were Federalists. Elridge Gerry, a distinguished politician at that period, was the inventor of that plan, which was called Gerrymandering, after him.—Glossary of Americanisms.

"Why," sais I, "skilful politicians, who so arrange the electoral districts of a State, that in an election one party may obtain an advantage over its opponent, even though the latter may possess a majority of the votes in the State; the truth is, it would be a long story to go through, but we are corrupted by our liberals with our own money, that's a fact. Would you believe it now, that so long ago as six years, and that is a great while in our history seein' we are growing at such a rate, there were sixty thousand offices in the gift of the general government, and patronage to the extent of more than forty million of dollars, besides official pickings and parquisites, which are nearly as much more in the aggregate? Since then it has grown with our growth. Or would you believe that a larger sum is assessed in the city of New York, than would cover the expenses of the general government at Washington? Constructive mileage may be considered as the principle of the party, and literally runs through everything."

"What strange terms you have, Mr Slick," said he; "do pray tell me what that is."

"Snooping and stool-pidgeoning," sais I.

"Constructive mileage, snooping and stool-pidgeoning!" said he, and he put his hands on his ribs, and running round in a circle, laughed until he nearly fell on the ground fairly tuckered out, "what do you mean?"

"Constructive mileage," says I, "is the same allowance for journeys supposed to be performed as for those that are actually made, to and from the seat of government. When a new president comes into office, Congress adjourns of course on the third of March, and his inauguration is made on the fourth; the senate is immediately convened to act on his nominations, and though not a man of them leaves Washington, each is supposed to go home and return again in the course of the ten or twelve hours that intervene between the adjournment and their reassembling. For this ideal journey the senators are allowed their mileages, as if the journey was actually made. In the case of those who come from a distance, the sum often amounts, individually, to one thousand or fifteen hundred dollars."

"Why, Mr Slick," said he, "that ain't honest."

"Honest," said I, "who the plague ever said it was? but what can you expect from red republicans? Well, snooping means taking things on the sly after a good rumage; and stool-pidgeoning means plundering under cover of law; for instance, if a judge takes a bribe, or a fellow is seized by a constable, and the stolen property found on him is given up, the merciful officer seizes the goods and lets him run, and that is all that ever is heard of it—that is stool-pidgeoning. But now," sais I, "sposin' we take a survey of the place here, for in a general way I don't affection politics, and as for party leaders, whether English reformers or American democrats, critters that are dyed in the wool, I hate the whole caboodle of them. Now, having donated you with my reasons for being a conservative, sposin' you have a row yourself. What do you consider best worth seeing here, if you can be said to see a place when it don't exist? for the English did sartainly deacon the calf^1 here, that's a fact. They made them smell cotton, and gave them partikilar Moses, and no mistake."

1 To deacon a calf, is to knock a thing on the head as soon as born or finished.

"Of the doings of the dead," he said, "all that is around us has a melancholy interest; but of the living there is a most extraordinary old fellow that dwells in that white house on the opposite side of the harbour. He can tell us all the particulars of the two sieges, and show us the site of most of the public buildings; he is filled with anecdotes of all the principal actors in the sad tragedies that have been enacted here; but he labours under a most singular monomania. Having told these stories so often he now believes that he was present at the first capture of the fortress, under Colonel Pepperal and the New England militia in 1745, and at the second in 1754, when it was taken by Generals Amherst and Wolfe. I suppose he may be ninety years of age; the first event must have happened therefore nineteen and the other six years before he was born; in everything else his accuracy of dates and details is perfectly astonishing."

"Massa," said Sorrow, "I don't believe he is nuffin' but a reeblushionary suspensioner (a revolutionary pensioner), but it peers to me dem folks do libb for ebber. My poor old missus used to call 'em King George's hard bargains, yah, yah, yah. But who comma dere, Massa?" said he, pointing to a boat that was rapidly approaching the spot where we stood.

The steersman, who appeared to be the skipper of a vessel, inquired for Cutler, and gave him a letter, who said as soon as he had read it, "Slick, our cruise has come to a sudden termination. Blowhard has purchased and fitted out his whaler, and only awaits my return to take charge of her and proceed to the Pacific. With his usual generosity, he has entered my name as the owner of one half of the ship, her tackle and outfit. I must go on board the 'Black Hawk' immediately, and prepare for departing this evening."

It was agreed that he should land the doctor at Ship Harbour, who was anxious to see Jessie, which made him as happy as a clam at high-water, and put me ashore at Jordan, where I was no less in a hurry to see a fair friend whose name is of no consequence now, for I hope to induce her to change it for one that is far shorter, easier to write and remember, and, though I say it that shouldn't say it, one that I consait she needn't be ashamed of neither.

On our way back, sais the doctor to me:

"Mr Slick, will you allow me to ask you another question?"

"A hundred," sais I, "if you like."

"Well," sais he, "I have inquired of you what you think of state affairs; will you tell me what you think about the Church? I see you belong to what we call the Establishment, and what you denominate the American Episcopal Church, which is very nearly the same thing. What is your opinion, now, of the Evangelical and Puseyite parties? Which is right and which is wrong?"

"Well," sais I, "coming to me about theology is like going to a goat's house for wool. It is out of my line. My views on all subjects are practical, and not theoretical. But first and foremost, I must tell you, I hate all nick-names. In general, they are all a critter knows of his own side, or the other either. As you have asked me my opinion, though, I will give it. I think both parties are wrong, because both go to extremes, and therefore are to be equally avoided. Our Articles, as dear old Minister used to say, are very wisely so worded as to admit of some considerable latitude of opinion; but that very latitude naturally excludes anything ultra. The Puritanical section, and the Newmanites (for Pusey, so far, is stedfast), are not, in fact, real churchmen, and ought to leave us. One are Dissenters and the other Romanists. The ground they severally stand on is slippery. A false step takes one to the conventicle and the other to the chapel. If I was an Evangelical, as an honest man, I would quit the Establishment as Baptist Noel did, and so I would if I were a Newmanite. It's only rats that consume the food and undermine the foundations of the house that shelters them. A traitor within the camp is more to be dreaded than an open enemy without. Of the two, the extreme low-churchmen are the most dangerous, for they furnish the greatest number of recruits of schism, and, strange to say, for popery too. Search the list of those who have gone over to Rome, from Ahab Meldrum to Wilberforce, and you will find the majority were originally Puritans or infidels—men who were restless, and ambitious of notoriety, who had learning and talent, but wanted common sense. They set out to astonish the world, and ended by astonishing themselves. They went forth in pursuit of a name, and lost the only one they were known by. Who can recognise Newman in Father Ignatius, who, while searching for truth, embraced error? or Baptist Noel in the strolling preacher, who uses a horse-pond instead of a font, baptizes adults instead of infants, and, unlike his Master, 'will not suffer little children to come unto him?' Ah, Doctor, there are texts neither of these men know the meaning of, 'Vanity of vanities, all is vanity.' One of them has yet to learn that pictures, vestments, music, processions, candlesticks, and confessionals are not religion, and the other that it does not consist in oratory, excitement, camp-meetings, rant, or novelties. There are many, very many, unobtrusive, noiseless, laborious, practical duties which clergymen have to perform; what a pity it is they won't occupy themselves in discharging them, instead of entangling themselves in controversies on subjects not necessary to salvation! But, alas! the Evangelical divine, instead of combating the devil, occupies himself in fighting his bishop, and the Newmanite, instead of striving to save sinners, prefers to 'curse and quit' his church. Don't ask me therefore which is right; I tell you, they are both wrong."

"Exactly," sais he.

"In medio tutissimus ibis."

"Doctor," sais I, "there are five languages spoke on the Nova Scotia coast already: English, Yankee, Gaelic, French, and Indian; for goodness gracious sake don't fly off the handle that way now and add Latin to them! But, my friend, as I have said, you have waked up the wrong passenger, if you think I am an ecclesiastical Bradshaw. I know my own track. It is a broad gauge, and a straight line, and I never travel by another, for fear of being put on a wrong one. Do you take? But here is the boat alongside;" and I shook him by the hand, and obtained his promise at parting that he and Jessie would visit me at Slickville in the autumn.

And now, Squire, I must write finis to the cruise of the "Black Hawk," and close my remarks on "Nature and Human Nature," or, "Men and Things," for I have brought it to a termination, though it is a hard thing to do, I assure you, for I seem as if I couldn't say Farewell. It is a word that don't come handy, no how I can fix it. It's like Sam's hat-band which goes nineteen times round, and won't tie at last. I don't like to bid good-bye to my Journal, and I don't like to bid good-bye to you, for one is like a child and the other a brother. The first I shall see again, when Hurst has a launch in the spring, but shall you and I ever meet again, Squire? that is the question, for it is dark to me. If it ever does come to pass, there must be a considerable slip of time first. Well, what can't be cured must be endured. So here goes. Here is the last fatal word, I shut my eyes when I write it, for I can't bear to see it. Here it is—

Ampersand.

THE END.