THE CUCUMBER LAKE.
“Here is a place under the lee bow,” said the pilot, “in which there
are sure to be some coasters, among whom the mate may find a market for
his wares, and make a good exchange for his mackarel.”
So we accordingly entered and cast anchor among a fleet of
fore-and-afters in one of those magnificent ports with which the
eastern coast is so liberally supplied.
“There is some good salmon-fishing in the stream that falls into the
harbour,” said the doctor, “suppose we try our rods;” and while Cutler
and his people were occupied in traffic, we rowed up the river beyond
the little settlement, which had nothing attractive in it, and landed
at the last habitation we could see. Some thirty or forty acres had
been cleared of the wood, the fields were well fenced, and a small
stock of horned cattle, principally young ones, and a few sheep, were
grazing in the pasture. A substantial rough log hut and barn were the
only buildings. With the exception of two little children playing about
the door, there were none of the family to be seen.
On entering the house, we found a young woman, who appeared to be its
sole occupant. She was about twenty-five years of age; tall, well
formed, strong, and apparently in the enjoyment of good health and
spirits. She had a fine open countenance, an artless and prepossessing
manner, and was plainly but comfortably clad in the ordinary homespun
of the country, and not only looked neat herself, but everything around
her was beautifully clean. It was manifest she had been brought up in
one of the older townships of the province, for there was an ease and
air about her somewhat superior to the log hut in which we found her.
The furniture was simple and of rude manufacture, but sufficient for
the wants of a small family, though here and there was an article of a
different kind and old-fashioned shape, that looked as if it had once
graced a substantial farm-house, probably a present from the inmates of
the old homestead.
We soon found from her that she and her husband were as she said new
beginners, who, like most persons in the wilderness, had had many
difficulties to contend with, which from accidental causes had during
the past year been greatly increased. The weavil had destroyed their
grain crop and the rot their potatoes, their main dependence, and they
had felt the pressure of hard times. She had good hopes however she
said for the present season, for they had sowed the golden straw wheat,
which they heard was exempt from the ravages of insects, and their
potatoes had been planted early on burnt land without barn manure, and
she was confident they would thereby be rescued from the disease. Her
husband, she informed us, in order to earn some money to make up for
their losses, had entered on board of an American fishing vessel, and
she was in daily expectation of his arrival, to remain at home until
the captain should call for him again, after he had landed his cargo at
Portland. All this was told in a simple and unaffected manner, but
there was a total absence of complaint or despondency, which often
accompany the recital of such severe trials.
Having sent Sorrow back in the boat with an injunction to watch our
signal of recall, we proceeded further up the river, and commenced
fishing. In a short time we killed two beautiful salmon, but the black
flies and musquitoes were so intolerably troublesome, we were compelled
to return to the log hut. I asked permission of our cheerful, tidy
young hostess to broil a piece of the salmon by her fire, more for the
purpose of leaving the fish with her than anything else, when she
immediately offered to perform that friendly office for us herself.
“I believe,” she said, “I have a drawing of tea left,” and taking from
the shelf a small mahogany caddy, emptied it of its contents. It was
all she had. The flour-barrel was also examined and enough was
gathered, as she said by great good luck, to make a few cakes. Her old
man, she remarked, for so she termed her young husband, would be back
in a day or two and bring a fresh supply. To relieve her of our
presence, while she was busied in those preparations, we strolled to
the bank of the river, where the breeze in the open ground swept away
our tormentors, the venomous and ravenous flies, and by the time our
meal was ready, returned almost loaded with trout. I do not know that I
ever enjoyed anything more than this unexpected meal. The cloth was
snowy white, the butter delicious, and the eggs fresh laid. In addition
to this, and what rendered it so acceptable, it was a free offering of
the heart.
In the course of conversation I learned from her, that the first year
they had been settled there they had been burnt out, and lost nearly
all they had, but she didn’t mind that she said, for, thank God, she
had saved her children, and she believed they had originally put up
their building in the wrong place. The neighbours had been very kind to
them, helped them to erect a new and larger house, near the beautiful
spring we saw in the green; and besides, she and her husband were both
young, and she really believed they were better off than they were
before the accident.
Poor thing, she didn’t need words of comfort, her reliance on
Providence and their own exertions was so great, she seemed to have no
doubt as to their ultimate success. Still, though she did not require
encouragement, confirmation of her hopes, I knew, would be grateful to
her, and I told her to tell her husband on no account to think of
parting with or removing from the place, for I observed there was an
extensive intervale of capital quality, an excellent mill privilege on
the stream where I caught the salmon, and as he had the advantage of
water carriage, that the wood on the place, which was of a quality to
suit the Halifax market, would soon place him in independent
circumstances.
“He will be glad to hear you think so, Sir,” she replied, “for he has
often said the very same thing himself; but the folks at the settlement
laugh at him when he talks that way, and say he is too sanguine. But I
am sure he ain’t, for it is very much like my poor father’s place in
Colchester, only it has the privilege of a harbour which he had not,
and that is a great thing.”
The signal for Sorrow having been hung out for some time, we rose to
take leave, and wishing to find an excuse for leaving some money behind
me, and recollecting having seen some cows in the field, I asked her if
she could sell me some of her excellent butter for the use of the
cabin. She said she could not do so, for the cows all had calves, and
she made but little; but she had five or six small prints, if I would
accept them, and she could fill me a bottle or two with cream.
I felt much hurt—I didn’t know what to do. She had given me her last
ounce of tea, baked her last cake, and presented me with all the butter
she had in the house. “Could or would you have done that?” said I to
myself, “come, Sam, speak the truth now.” Well, Squire, I only brag
when I have a right to boast, though you do say I am always brim full
of it, and I won’t go for to deceive you or myself either, I know I
couldn’t, that’s a fact. I have mixed too much with the world, my
feelings have got blunted, and my heart ain’t no longer as soft as it
used to did to be. I can give, and give liberally, because I am able,
but I give what I don’t want and what I don’t miss; but to give as this
poor woman did all she had of these two indispensable articles, tea and
flour, is a thing, there is no two ways about it, I could not.
I must say I was in a fix; if I was to offer to pay her, I knew I
should only wound her feelings. She derived pleasure from her
hospitality, why should I deprive her of that gratification? If she
delighted to give, why should I not in a like feeling be pleased to
accept, when a grateful reception was all that was desired—must I be
outdone in all things? must she teach me how to give freely and accept
gracefully?
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-_orné_, 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
_distingué_ 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.’”