Beyond the utmost verge of the limits which the white settlers had yet
dared to encroach on the red owners of the soil, stood the humble
dwelling of Kenneth Gordon, a Scotch emigrant, whom necessity had driven
from the blue hills and fertile vallies of his native land, to seek a
shelter in the tangled mazes of the forests of the new world. Few would
have had the courage to venture thus into the very power of the
savage--but Kenneth Gordon possessed a strong arm and a hopeful heart,
to give the lips he loved unborrowed bread; this nerved him against
danger, and, 'spite of the warning of friends, Kenneth pitched his tent
twelve miles from the nearest settlement. Two years passed over the
family in their lonely home, and nothing had occurred to disturb their
peace, when business required Kenneth's presence up the river. One calm
and dewy morning he prepared for his journey; Marion Gordon followed her
husband to the wicket, and a tear, which she vainly strove to hide with
a smile, trembled in her large blue eye. She wedded Kenneth when she
might well have won a richer bridegroom: she chose him for his worth;
their lot had been a hard one--but in all the changing scenes of life
their love remained unchanged; and Kenneth Gordon, although thirteen
years a husband, was still a lover. Marion strove to rally her spirits,
as her husband gaily cheered her with an assurance of his return before
night. "Why so fearful, Marion? See here is our ain bonny Charlie for a
guard, and what better could an auld Jacobite wish for?" said Kenneth,
looking fondly on his wife; while their son marched past them in his
Highland dress and wooden claymore by his side. Marion smiled as her
husband playfully alluded to the difference in their religion; for
Kenneth was a staunch presbyterian, and his wife a Roman catholic; yet
that difference--for which so much blood has been shed in the
world--never for an instant dimmed the lustre of their peace; and Marion
told her glittering beads on the same spot where her husband breathed
his simple prayer. Kenneth, taking advantage of the smile he had roused,
waved his hand to the little group, and was soon out of sight.
The hot and sultry day was passed by Marion in a state of restless
anxiety, but it was for Kenneth alone she feared, and the hours sped
heavily till she might expect his return. Slowly the burning sun
declined in the heavens, and poured a flood of golden radiance on the
leafy trees and the bright waves of the majestic river, which rolled its
graceful waters past the settlers dwelling. Marion left her infant
asleep in a small shed at the back of the log-house, with Mary, her
eldest daughter, to watch by it, and taking Charlie by the hand went out
to the gate to look for her husband's return. Kenneth's father, an old
and almost superannuated man, sat in the door-way, with twin girls of
Kenneth's sitting on his knees, singing their evening hymn, while he
bent fondly over them.
Scarcely had Marion reached the wicket, when a loud yell--the wild
war-whoop of the savage--rang on her startled ear. A thousand dark
figures seemed to start from the water's edge--the house was surrounded,
and she beheld the grey hairs of the old man twined round in the hand of
one, and the bright curls of her daughters gleamed in that of another;
while the glittering tomahawk glared like lightning in her eyes. Madly
she rushed forward to shield her children; the vengeance of the Indian
was glutted, and the life-blood of their victims crimsoned the hearth
stone! The house was soon in flames--the war dance was finished--and
their canoes bounded lightly on the waters, bearing them far from the
scene of their havoc.
As the sun set a heavy shower of rain fell and refreshed the parched
earth--the flowers sent up a grateful fragrance on the evening air--the
few singing birds of the woods poured forth their notes of melody--the
blue jay screamed among the crimson buds of the maple, and the humming
bird gleamed through the emerald sprays of the beech tree.
The pearly moon was slowly rising in the blue aether, when Kenneth
Gordon approached his home. He was weary with his journey, but the
pictured visions of his happy home, his smiling wife, and the caresses
of his sunny haired children, cheered the father's heart, though his
step was languid, and his brow feverish. But oh! what a sight of horror
for a fond and loving heart met his eyes, as he came in sight of the
spot that contained his earthly treasures--the foreboding silence had
surprised him--he heard not the gleeful voices of his children, as they
were wont to bound forth to meet him, he saw not Marion stand at the
gate to greet his return--but a thick black smoke rose heavily to the
summits of the trees, and the smouldering logs of the building fell with
a sullen noise to the ground. The rain had quenched the fire, and the
house was not all consumed. Wild with terror, Kenneth rushed forward;
his feet slipped on the bloody threshhold, and he fell on the mangled
bodies of his father and his children. The demoniac laceration of the
stiffening victims told too plainly who had been their murderers. How
that night of horror passed Kenneth knew not. The morning sun was
shining bright--when the bereaved and broken-hearted man was roused from
the stupor of despair by the sound of the word "father" in his ears; he
raised his eyes, and beheld Mary, his eldest daughter, on her knees
beside him. For a moment Kenneth fancied he had had a dreadful dream,
but the awful reality was before him. He pressed Mary wildly to his
bosom, and a passionate flood of tears relieved his burning brain. Mary
had heard the yells of the savages, and the shrieks of her mother
convinced her that the dreaded Indians had arrived. She threw open the
window, and snatching the infant from its bed, flew like a wounded deer
to the woods behind the house. The frightened girl heard all, remained
quiet, and knowing her father would soon return, left the little Alice
asleep on some dried leaves, and ventured from her hiding place.
No trace of Marion or of Charles could be found--they had been reserved
for a worse fate; and for months a vigilant search was kept up--parties
of the settlers, led on by Kenneth, scoured the woods night and day.
Many miles off a bloody battle had been fought between two hostile
tribes, where a part of Marion's dress and of her son's was found, but
here all trace of the Indians ended, and Kenneth returned to his
desolated home. No persuasion could induce him to leave the place where
the joys of his heart had been buried: true, his remaining children yet
linked him to life, but his love for them only increased his sorrow for
the dead and the lost. Kenneth became a prematurely old man--his dark
hair faded white as the mountain snow--his brow was wrinkled, and his
tall figure bent downwards to the earth.
Seventeen years had rolled on their returnless flight since that night
of withering sorrow. Kenneth Gordon still lived, a sad and
broken-spirited man; but time, that great tamer of the human heart,
which dulls the arrows of affliction, and softens the bright tints of
joy down to a sober hue, had shed its healing influence even over his
wounded heart. Mary Gordon had been some years a wife, and her children
played around Kenneth's footsteps. A little Marion recalled the wife of
his youth; and another, Charlie, the image of his lost son, slept in his
bosom. There was yet another person who was as a sunbeam in the sight of
Kenneth; her light laugh sounded as music in his ears, and the joy-beams
of her eyes fell gladly on his soul. This gladdener of sorrow was his
daughter Alice, now a young and lovely woman; bright and beautiful was
she, lovely as a rose-bud, with a living soul--
"No fountain from its native cave,
E'er tripped with foot so free;
She was as happy as a wave
That dances o'er the sea."
Alice was but five months old when her mother was taken from her, but
Mary, who watched over her helpless infancy with a care far beyond her
years, and with love equal to a mother's, was repaid by Alice with most
unbounded affection; for to the love of a sister was added the
veneration of a parent.
One bright and balmy Sabbath morning Kenneth Gordon and his family left
their home for the house of prayer. Mary and her husband walked
together, and their children gambolled on the grassy path before them.
Kenneth leaned on the arm of his daughter Alice; another person walked
by her side, whose eye, when it met her's, deepened the tint on her fair
cheek. It was William Douglas--the chosen lover of her heart, and well
worthy was he to love the gentle Alice. Together they proceeded to the
holy altar, and the next Sabbath was to be their bridal day.
A change had taken place since Kenneth Gordon first settled on the banks
of the lonely river. The white walls and graceful spire of a church now
rose where the blue smoke of the solitary log-house once curled through
the forest trees; and the ashes of Kenneth's children and his father
reposed within its sacred precincts. A large and populous village stood
where the red deer roved on his trackless path. The white sails of the
laden barque gleamed on the water, where erst floated the stealthy canoe
of the savage; and a pious throng offered their aspirations where the
war-whoop had rung on the air.
Alice was to spend the remaining days of her maiden life with a young
friend, a few miles from her father's, and they were to return together
on her bridal eve. William Douglas accompanied Alice on her walk to the
house of her friend. They parted within a few steps of the house.
William returned home, and Alice, gay and gladsome as a bird, entered a
piece of wood, which led directly to the house. Scarcely had she entered
it when she was seized by a strong arm; her mouth was gagged, and
something thrown over her head; she was then borne rapidly down the bank
of the river, and laid in a canoe. She heard no voices, and the swift
motion of the canoe rendered her unconscious. How long the journey
lasted she knew not. At length she found herself, on recovering from
partial insensibility, in a rude hut, with a frightful-looking Indian
squaw bathing her hands, while another held a blazing torch of pine
above her head. Their hideous faces, frightful as the imagery of a
dream, scared Alice, and she fainted again.
The injuries which Kenneth Gordon had suffered from the savages made him
shudder at the name of Indian--and neither he nor his family ever held
converse with those who traded in the village. Metea, a chief of the
Menomene Indians, in his frequent trading expeditions to the village,
had often seen Alice, and became enamoured of the village beauty. He had
long watched an opportunity of stealing her, and bearing her away to his
tribe, where he made no doubt of winning her love. When Alice recovered
the squaws left her, and Metea entered the hut; he commenced by telling
her of the great honour in being allowed to share the hut of Metea, a
"brave" whose bow was always strung, whose tomahawk never missed its
blow, and whose scalps were as numerous as the stars in the path-way of
ghosts; and he pointed to the grisly trophies hung in the smoke of the
cabin. He concluded by giving her furs and strings of beads, with which
the squaws decorated her, and the next morning the trembling girl was
led from the hut, and lifted into a circle formed of the warriors of the
tribe. Here Metea stood forth and declared his deeds of bravery, and
asked their consent for "the flower of the white nation" to be his
bride. When he had finished, a young warrior, whose light and graceful
limbs might well have been a sculptor's model, stood forward to speak.
He was dressed in the richest Indian costume, and his scalping knife and
beaded moccasins glittered in the sunshine. His features bore an
expression very different from the others. Neither malice nor cunning
lurked in his full dark eye, but a calm and majestic melancholy reposed
on his high and smooth brow, and was diffused over his whole mein; and,
in the clear tones of his voice, "Brothers," said he to the warriors,
"we have buried the hatchet with the white nation--it is very deep
beneath the earth--shall we dig it because Metea scorns the women of his
tribe, because he has stolen 'the flower of the white nation?' Let her
be restored to her people, lest her chiefs come to claim her, and Metea
lives to disgrace the brave warriors of the woods?" He sat down, and the
circle rising, said, "Our brother speaks well, but Metea is very
_brave_." It was decided that Alice should remain.
Towards evening Metea entered the hut, and approaching Alice, caught
hold of her hand,--the wildest passion gleamed in his glittering eyes,
and Alice, shrieking, ran towards the door. Metea caught her in his arms
and pressed her to his bosom. Again she shrieked, and a descending blow
cleft Metea's skull in sunder, and his blood fell on her neck. It was
the young Indian who advised her liberation in the morning who dealt
Metea's death-blow. Taking Alice in his arms, he stepped lightly from
the hut. It was a still and starless night, and the sleeping Indians saw
them not. Unloosing a canoe, he placed Alice in it, and pushed softly
from the shore.
Before the next sunset Alice was in sight of her home. Her father and
friends knew nothing of what had transpired. They fancied her at her
friend's house, and terror at her peril and joy at her return followed
in the same breath. Mary threw a timid, yet kind glance on the Indian
warrior who had saved her darling Alice, and Kenneth pressed the hand of
him who restored his child. In a few minutes William Douglas joined the
happy group, and she repeated her escape on his bosom. That night
Kenneth Gordon's prayer was longer and more fervent than usual. The
father's thanks arose to the throne of grace for the safety of his
child; he prayed for her deliverer, and for pardon for the hatred he had
nurtured against the murderers of his children. During the prayer the
Indian stood apart, his arms were folded, and deep thought was marked on
his brow. When it was finished, Mary's children knelt and received
Kenneth's blessing, ere they retired to rest. The Indian rushed forward,
and, bursting into tears, threw himself at the old man's feet--he bent
his feathered head to the earth. The stern warrior wept like a child.
Oh! who can trace the deep workings of the human heart? Who can tell in
what hidden fount the feelings have their spring? The forest chase--the
bloody field--the war dance--all the pomp of savage life passed like a
dream from the Indian's soul; a cloud seemed to roll its shadows from
his memory. That evening's prayer, and a father's blessing, recalled a
time faded from his recollection, yet living in the dreams of his soul.
He thought of the period when he, a happy child like those before him,
had knelt and heard the same sweet words breathed o'er his bending head:
he remembered having received a father's kiss, and a mother's smile
gleamed like a star in his memory; but the fleeting visions of childhood
were fading again into darkness, when Kenneth arose, and, clasping the
Indian wildly to his breast, exclaimed, "My son, my son! my long lost
Charles!" The springs of the father's love gushed forth to meet his son,
and the unseen sympathy of nature guided him to "The Lost One." 'Twas
indeed Charles Gordon, whom his father held to his breast, but not as he
lived in his father's fancy. He beheld him a painted savage, whose hand
was yet stained with blood; but Kenneth's fondest prayer was granted,
and he pressed him again to his bosom, exclaiming again, "He is my son."
A small gold cross hung suspended from the collar of Charles. Kenneth
knew it well; it had belonged to Marion, who hung it round her son's
neck e'er her eyes were closed. She had sickened early of her captivity,
and died while her son was yet a child: but the relics she had left
were prized by him as something holy. From his wampum belt he took a
roll of the bark of the birch tree, on which something had been written
with a pencil. The writing was nearly effaced, and the signature of
Marion Gordon was alone distinguishable. Kenneth pressed the writing to
his lips, and again his bruised spirit mourned for his sainted Marion.
Mary and Alice greeted their restored brother with warm affection.
Kenneth lived but in the sight of his son. Charles rejoiced in their
endearments, and all the joys of kindred were to him
"New as if brought from other spheres,
Yet welcome as if known for years."
But soon a change came o'er the young warrior; his eye grew dim, his
step was heavy, and his brow was sad: he sought for solitude, and he
seemed like a bird pining for freedom. They thought he sighed for the
liberty of his savage life, but, alas! it was another cause. The better
feelings of the human heart all lie dormant in the Indian character, and
are but seldom called into action. Charles had been the "stern stoic of
the woods" till he saw Alice. Then the first warm rush of young
affections bounded like a torrent through his veins, and he loved his
sister with a passion so strong, so overwhelming, that it sapped the
current of his life. The marriage of Alice had been delayed on his
return--it would again have been delayed on his account, but he himself
urged it forward. Kenneth entered the church with Charles leaning on his
arm. During the ceremony he stood apart from the others. When it was
finished, Alice went up to him and took his hand; it was cold as
marble--he was dead; his spirit fled with the bridal benediction.
Kenneth's heart bled afresh for his son, and as he laid his head in the
earth he felt that it would not be long till he followed him. Nor was he
mistaken; for a few mornings after he was found dead on the grave of
"_The Lost One_."
* * * * *
And now the bright summer of New Brunswick drew onward to its close. The
hay, which in this country is cut in a much greener state than is usual
elsewhere, and which, from this cause, retains its fragrance till the
spring, was safely lodged in the capacious barns. The buck wheat had
changed its delicate white flower for the brown clusters of its grain,
and the reaper and the thrasher were both busied with it, for so loosely
does this grain hang on its stem that it is generally thrashed out of
doors as soon as ripe, as much would be lost in the conveyance to the
barn.
Grace Marley's time of departure now drew near; her government stipend
had arrived. The proprietors, who paid in trade, had deposited the
butter and oats equivalent to her hire in the market boat, in which she
intended to proceed to town. And as this is decidedly the pleasantest
method of travelling, I laid out to accompany her by the same
conveyance, and we were spending the last evening with Mrs. Gordon, who
also was to be our companion to St. John; we walked with Helen through
her flower-garden, who showed us some flowers, the seeds of which she
had received from the old country. I saw a bright hue pass o'er the brow
of Grace as we walked among them, and tears gushed forth from her warm
and feeling heart. Next day she explained what occasioned her emotion, a
feeling which all must have felt, awakened by as slight a cause, when
wandering far from their native land. Thus she pourtrayed what she then
felt--