people as kind to me as the people in the States have been, I shall do
very well. Every body feels pitiful to a lone woman with little children.
If it please God to mend my little girl, I shall go on with good courage."
Mrs. Sackville commended the poor woman's resolution, and busied herself
putting up some medicines for the child, and giving directions about
them, and was so occupied with her benevolent duty, that she gave little
heed to Edward's continued exclamations. "Oh, mother! how beautiful the
colour of the water of the Niagara is!" "Mother, does not it give you
sublime feelings to think you are on the Niagara?" "Mother, does not
Lake Erie look grand from here?" &c. &c. &c. Suddenly his attention was
diverted, and he was attracted to the extremity of the boat, where
Tristy, the little "Flibbertigibbet" we have before mentioned, was
exhibiting various feats for the amusement of the passengers. He was a
little, pale, wizened-face fellow, with a bleared and blood-shot eye,
his hair black, strait, and matted to his head, his mouth defiled with
tobacco, and in short his whole appearance indicating the depravity of
one experienced in vice. He dislocated the joints of his fingers, stood
firmly on his head, and performed some of the difficult exploits of a
tumbler; and when he had done all this, "Come, gentlemen," said he,
"shall I sing you a song, or pray you a prayer? I'll suit your fancy
with either for a sixpence."
"No, no; none of your prayers, you little son of the old one," said one
of the men; "we shall have your master with the cloven foot after us
before we get to the shore: you may sing us a song, though, only let it
be a decent one."
"Oh, well gentlemen, suit yourselves--I am a Jack at all trades, you
know--that is to say, at any of the trades my father, that is dead and
gone, followed before me."
"Trades! your father followed no trade, but the trade of the
light-fingered gentry."
"I beg your pardon, sir; my dad was a noted man in his day:--a
carpenter, joiner, tooth-drawer, barber, gardener, studying-master,
dancing-master, whipping-master, fiddling-master, school-master,
music-master, play-actor, &c. &c.--all of which I am yours gentlemen
to command. Now for the song:--there is Erie, and my song is Perry's
glorious victory." He then half sung, half recited, a ballad recounting
Perry's gallant exploits on the lake.
It was impossible for a compassionate being to see the little outcast
without an emotion of pity; or not to be affected by the weak and almost
infantine tones of his voice.
"How old are you, child?" asked Mr. Sackville, as the boy concluded his
song, and opened his mouth to catch the sixpence that was tossed to him.
"How old? I do not justly remember; but there is my age set down in our
family Bible, as my father called it, by his own honored hand, on the
day he got through, as I have heard him say, his fourth term of service
at the state-castle."
Mr. Sackville took from the child's hand a filthy little dream-book, on
the title-page of which was scrawled, and scarcely legible,--"Tristram
McPhelan, born in the Bridewell, city of New-York, on Friday--bad luck
to him--March 1807."
"You are then but eleven years old."
"Yes sir; and in that time I have seen more of life than many of my
betters twice my age. I have been in every state in the Union, and
in every city of every state. I have been in six alms-houses, two
workhouses, and ten jails, on my own account, besides the privilege of
visiting my father in two different state prisons. While my father lived
we travelled in company, and now I am obliged (he concluded, bowing to
Mr. Sackville,) to put up with what company chance throws in my way."
Mr. Sackville took Edward by the hand, and turned away, grieved and
disgusted. His eye fell on his daughter, who was sitting beside
Mrs. Barton, carefully sheltering the sick child from the sun with her
parasol, while she nicely prepared an orange and offered it to her.
The little sufferer seized it eagerly and devoured it, and then fixed
her eyes on Julia and smiled. The first smile of a sick child is
electrifying.
"Oh! miss," said the mother, "does not she seem to say, 'God bless you,'
though she cannot speak it?"
Julia was delighted with the revival of the child, and with the mother's
gratitude, which was even more manifest in her brightened countenance
than in her words.
"My medicine," said Julia, "has worked wonders; if I could but find one
more orange, I should quite cure my little patient;" and she zealously
ransacked the carriage, and turned out every basket and bag in the hope
of finding another, but all in vain. Disappointed, she turned to her
mother,--"Cannot we, mama," she said, "do something more for this poor
woman before we leave her?"
"I do not see that we can, my dear," replied Mrs. Sackville, "I have
offered to pay her stage fare hence to Newark, but she says she has
money, and declines receiving any thing."
"Oh, then she is not obliged to go on foot--I could not endure to think
of the child's being exposed to this hot sun."
"That, I am afraid, cannot be helped; for the mother does go to Newark
on foot. I could not persuade her to ride. She insists that she is very
strong, and that her child is so wasted she scarcely feels the burthen
of it; and besides, she travels but a very short distance in a day."
Julia paused for a moment. She was very reluctant to give up the point,
and finally, as the last resource of her ingenuity, she proposed that
her mother should take the woman into the carriage. "We can just squeeze
her in for a few miles, mama; she looks so perfectly nice, that even
uncle can't object; and I want so to know if the little girl continues
to get better."
Mrs. Sackville could scarcely refrain from smiling at Julia's odd
proposition to take in a way-faring woman and two children, but it had
its source in such kind feelings, that she would not ridicule it. "I am
afraid, my dear Julia," she said, "that it is quite impossible to
gratify you. You know your uncle already complains of wanting
elbow-room."
"Well then, mother, just listen to one more proposal:--take the woman
into the carriage, and let Edward and me walk two or three miles. Three
miles will be quite a lift to her, and Ned will lead the little boy."
Mrs. Sackville could not resist Julia's eagerness, and after some
consultation with her husband and brother, she consented to the
arrangement, though it involved them in some inconvenience and delay. It
was as much a matter of principle as feeling with her, never to permit
her own personal accommodation to interfere with the claims of humanity.
A child is more impressed with a single example of disinterestedness,
than with a hundred admonitions on the subject. Mrs. Sackville had some
difficulty in overcoming the scruples of Mrs. Barton, who felt a modest
awkwardness at seating herself in the carriage with her superiors; but
when they reached the Canada shore, the necessary arrangements were
made, and she being at last persuaded, on the ground of gratifying the
children, took their place in the carriage, and it drove off and left
Edward and Julia to follow with little Richard Barton, and Tristram with
the wallet.
Mr. Morris was one of those thrifty people, who can never see any
necessity of poverty, and though he was in the main kind hearted, he was
rather inclined to be severe in his judgment of the wretched. Poverty
was always suspicious in his eyes. No sooner were they seated and well
under way, than he said, "It is a mystery to me, my good woman, why
people who have not any spare cash should always be travelling.
Sometimes they are going up country to see a relation--and sometimes
down country. All their kindred are sure to live at their antipodes."
Mrs. Barton kept her eyes downcast on her child, and made no reply.
"Now," continued Mr. Morris, "what use or pleasure there can be in
lugging children from Dan to Beersheba, is more than I can imagine."
"God knows, I do not travel for the pleasure of it," meekly replied the
poor woman.
"Oh, no, no--I dare say not--I dare say not"--said Mr. Morris, who had
whiffed away his pet with the first breath. "You are of another sort.
But, pray, my friend, what are you travelling for?"
"To join my husband at Quebec."
"Your husband at Quebec--and you here! how the deuce came that about?"
"My child has fallen asleep," replied Mrs. Barton, turning to
Mrs. Sackville; "and if you, ma'am, will condescend to hear the cause
of my being here--there is no reason that I should be loath to tell it;
only you know, ma'am, one does not like to be forward about speaking of
troubles to strangers--and those so kind as you, it seems like begging,
which I am not forward to do."
Mrs. Sackville assured Mrs. Barton, that she felt great interest in
knowing how she came into her present circumstances.
"My husband," she said, "was a corporal in the fortieth ----. We were
in Spain through all Wellington's campaigns, and had just crossed the
Pyrennees into France, and were thinking of going home to England
again, when the regiment was ordered to America. This was no great
disappointment to me--I have no known relation in the world but my
husband and child--then I had but the one. My husband is a sober man,
who fears God and serves his king with all his heart: and his pay with
my earnings, (for I did up all the linen of our officers) furnished us
a decent living. When we arrived at Quebec, our regiment was sent into
Upper Canada.
"Soon after we came to Newark, a detachment from the De Watteville
regiment was ordered to make an attack on Fort Erie. In this detachment
was a corporal, a great friend to us, who once saved my boy from
drowning. At the moment he was ordered off, he had a child seemingly at
the last gasp. The poor man was distracted like, and my husband, who had
that tender heart that he could never bide to look on misery, offered to
go as his substitute, and he went. You've doubtless heard of the sortie
of Erie: that dreadful night my husband was taken prisoner. He got a
letter written to me from Buffalo, to tell me all his ill-fortune. He
had been mistaken by some American soldiers for a deserter from the
American army; and not being with his own regiment when he was taken, or
even among his acquaintance, he could not prove who he was. He had been
ironed, and was to be taken to Greenbush, near Albany.
"He entreated me to procure from his captain, the necessary papers to
prove that he was a true man, and to forward them to him. Our captain
was a great friend to us; he gave me the writings, and I determined
myself to go to Greenbush. I met with some troubles, and much kindness
by the way. The people in your States, ma'am, are the freest and the
kindest I have ever seen. They seemed to me like God's stewards, always
ready to open their storehouses to the naked and hungry. I had money
enough to pay for my boy's riding the most of the way; for myself I
seldom felt weary, but pressed on beyond my strength; still I did not
feel it till I got to Greenbush, and was told my husband had escaped
from confinement the week before. Whither he had gone, no one knew, but
all told me that if he was not retaken, he had probably reached Canada.
"I would have come straight home again, but my strength was utterly
gone. I have not much recollection from this time: I remember having a
fear that they would take my boy from me, but all seems as a dream, till
I came to myself two months after in the alms-house in Albany. From that
time I remained in a low wretched state, for four months, when this poor
baby was born into this world of trouble."
Here the poor woman gave way to a burst of tears, which seemed to be
a relief to her full heart; for afterwards, she proceeded with more
composure. "Many months passed before I was able to do any thing for
myself. It pleased God to hear my prayer for patience; and though I was
often without any hope that times would ever mend with me, I was kept
from fretting. You are very kind to feel for me, but I will not tire
you with all my ups and downs for the last three years. I have sent
many letters into Canada, but have never received any return. My heart
sometimes misgives me, and I think my husband has gone to Europe--or
maybe is dead."
"But, why," asked Mrs. Sackville, "have you remained so long in the
States?"
"O, ma'am, I was afraid to undertake the journey with my poor baby, who
has always been but delicate, and I was determined not to leave Albany,
where I had made many kind friends, till I had earned something to help
us on our journey. I know how to turn my hands to almost any kind of
work; and the last year has prospered so well with me, that when I left
Albany I had forty dollars. At Buffalo my poor baby was taken down; and
I have been obliged to spend ten dollars; with the rest I hope to get to
Quebec; and if worst comes to worst, I may there find friends to send
me to Europe."
The poor woman's story was not one of unparalleled misfortunes, but it
was unusually interesting to her hearers--there was so much resolution
and mildness blended in her countenance, such perfect cleanliness in her
coarse apparel, and such an evident solicitude to avoid any exaggeration,
or even display of her troubles, that could be an appeal to the charity
of her auditors, that when she concluded, they felt convinced of her
merit, and deeply interested in her welfare. They were now arrived at
the inn, where they were to await the children, who arrived in the
course of an hour, heated and dusty--but declaring they had never a
more delightful walk.
"Lord bless you, Miss," exclaimed Mrs. Barton, "you've heated yourself
to that degree, that the blood seems ready to burst from your cheeks. I
shall never forgive myself if you get sick by it."
"Oh never fear," replied Julia, "I did not feel the heat at all."
"But there is such a thick sickly feeling in the air to-day."
"Sickly feeling," exclaimed Edward, "I am sure I thought the air was
never fresher and sweeter."
"You can now understand," said Mrs. Sackville, speaking in a low voice
to her children, "the charm of the ring in the Fairy tale, bestowed by
the benevolent Genius; which whenever worn, produced a clear sky, a
smooth path and fragrant air. There is a happiness, my dear children,
in the simplest act of genuine kindness, which is much more than a
compensation for the loss of any gratification of taste. The relief of
this poor woman, and the sweet sleep into which her child has been
lulled by the motion of the carriage, have quite reconciled me to the
delay of the sight of the Falls; for which I confess I began to feel a
little but here comes your uncle, full of concern about something."
Mr. Morris entered the room in great perturbation. "Here is a pretty
spot of work," said he. "I believe in my soul, Mrs. Barton, that that
scamp Tristy has gone off with your bundle."
"Gone off with it!--God forbid!" exclaimed the poor woman,--"my money
was all in it."
"Oh uncle," said Edward, "he has not gone off with it;--he laid himself
down under a tree in the wood just back, and said he would follow on as
soon as he had rested him."
"Rested him! a mere pretence to get rid of you--you should have had more
discretion than to have trusted him, Ned;--but when was ever discretion
found in a boy?"
"But what reason, brother, have you to think he has gone off?" asked
Mrs. Sackville.
Mr. Morris said there had a man just come over the road, of whom he had
inquired if he had seen him:--he had not, but he was certain he should
have observed him if he had been by the road side. Mr. Morris had
despatched a servant on horseback in pursuit of him, and he begged
Mrs. Barton to calm herself till his return.
The poor woman's agitation could not be allayed as easily as it had
been excited:--she said nothing; but she became as pale as death, and
trembled so excessively, that Mrs. Sackville took her child from her
arms and laid it on a bed.
Mr. Morris's compassion once excited, was never stinted. "Bless you,
woman," he whispered to Mrs. Barton, "don't tremble so. If the little
imp has really made off, your loss shall be made up to you. Come, cheer
up--I have engaged a place for you and your children in a return
carriage, and you will all be in Newark to-night, safe and snug."
"God bless you, sir," replied Mrs. Barton. "I am ashamed of myself; but
my courage and strength seem quite spent."
At this instant, Edward, who had gone out on the first notice of the
boy's delinquency, returned, shouting, "He's coming, he's coming;" and
directly the messenger made his appearance with the wallet unharmed, and
followed by Tristram, who came doggedly on muttering, "that it was a
poor reward for lugging the old woman's bundle to be hunted for a
thief."
"Stop your clamor, Tristy," said Mr. Morris, "the devil shall have his
due; there is a shilling for you, which is full as much as your
character is worth."
"I don't know as to that," replied the boy, pocketing the shilling:
"those that have much character can do as they please, but I have so
little, that I set a high price on it."
The carriage was now ready in which Mrs. Barton was to proceed, and her
friends saw her depart cheered and comforted by their kindness, and
themselves enriched by the opportunity they had improved of imitating
our heavenly Benefactor by 'raising the sinking heart, and strengthening
the knees that were ready to fail.'
After our travellers were again on their way, Mr. Morris said he did not
at all like Tristram's look, when he said Goody Barton would remember
him the next time she felt the weight of her wallet. "The little rascal
said too, that he had changed his mind, and was going back to the
States--putting that and that together, I am afraid his evil fingers
have been inside the poor woman's bundle."
Julia was sure he could not be so wicked--she had herself observed the
bundle, and that it was very nicely sewed.
Mrs. Sackville hoped and believed that there was no harm done to the
poor woman's property; and the concern of the party for their protegee,
gradually gave place to their admiration of the beauties of their ride,
and the animated expectation of seeing the Falls.
Edward declared that his ears already began to tingle,--and after they
passed Chippewa, Julia resolutely shut her eyes, for fear of having the
first impression weakened by the imperfect glimpses that could be caught
of the cataract from the road.
* * * * *
We hope our young readers do not think us so presumptuous as to attempt
to give them a description of the Falls of Niagara; one of the sublimest
spectacles with which this fair earth is embellished. Neither can we
attempt to define the emotions of our travellers. We find in Edward's
and Julia's journals, noted with an accuracy and taste that does them
great credit, all the constituent parts of this great whole--a poet or
a painter might perhaps weave them into a beautiful picture.
The vehement dashing of the rapids--the sublime falls--the various
hues of the mass of waters--the snowy whiteness, and the deep bright
green--the billowy spray that veils in deep obscurity the depths
below--the verdant island that interposes between the two falls, half
veiled in a misty mantle, and placed there, it would seem, that the eye
and the spirit may repose on it--the little island on the brink of the
American fall, that looks amidst the commotion of the waters like the
sylvan vessel of a woodland nymph gaily sailing onward; or as if the
wish of the Persian girl were realized, and the 'little isle _had_
wings;'--a thing of life and motion that the spirit of the waters had
inspired.
The profound caverns with their overarching rocks--the quiet habitations
along the margin of the river--peaceful amid all the uproar, as if the
voice of the Creator had been heard, saying "It is I, be not afraid."--The
green hill, with its graceful projections, that skirts and overlooks
Table-rock--the deep and bright verdure of the foliage--every spear of
grass that penetrates the crevices of the rocks, gemmed by the humid
atmosphere, and sparkling in the sun-beams--the rainbow that rests on
the mighty torrent--a symbol of the smile of God upon his wondrous work.
"What is it, mother?" asked Edward, as he stood with his friends on
Table-rock, where they had remained gazing on the magnificent scene for
fifteen minutes without uttering a syllable, "what is it, mother, that
makes us all so silent?"
"It is the spirit of God moving on the face of the waters--it is this
new revelation to our senses of his power and majesty which ushers us,
as it were, into his visible presence, and exalts our affections above
language.
"What, my dear children, should we be, without the religious sentiment
that is to us as a second sight, by which we see in all this beauty the
hand of the Creator; by which we are permitted to join in this hymn of
nature; by which, I may say, we are permitted to enter into the joy of
our Lord? Without it we should be like those sheep, who are at this
moment grazing on the verge of this sublime precipice, alike unconscious
of all these wonders, and of their divine Original. This religious
sentiment is in truth, Edward, that promethean fire that kindles nature
with a living spirit, infuses life and expression into inert matter, and
invests the mortal with immortality." Mrs. Sackville's eye was upraised,
and her countenance illumined with a glow of devotion that harmonized
with the scene. "It is, my dear children," she continued, "this
religious sentiment, enlightened and directed by reason, that allies
you to external nature, that should govern your affections, direct your
pursuits, exalt and purify your pleasures, and make you feel, by its
celestial influence, that the kingdom is within you; but," she added
smiling, after a momentary pause, "this temple does not need a
preacher."
"Perhaps not," said Mr. Sackville; "but the language of nature sometimes
needs an interpreter to such young observers as Ned and Julia."
"That it does, papa," exclaimed Edward, whose exalted feeling was
gradually subsiding to its natural level; "and there are people, too,
older than Julia and I, that I think need an interpreter. That
Yorkshireman, for instance, who lives in the stone house just at the
turn of the road as we came down from Forsyth's, said to me, 'Well,
young master, this is a mighty fine sight to come and see, but you would
be sick enough of it if you lived here. It seems, when I am lying on my
bed at night, like an everlasting thunder-storm, such a roaring from the
Falls and dropping from the trees: and in winter my poor beasts are
covered with icicles. I wish some of the quality that cry the place up,
and come half the world over to see it, would change births with my
wife and me,' and so he went on railing till I ran away from him to
overtake you."
"Poor fellow!" said Mr. Sackville; "the sentiment, 'Il n'y a rien de
beau que l'utile,'[3] is quite excusable in a laborer. I think, Ned, I
feel more disposed to pity than to blame your Yorkshireman."
[3] There is nothing but the useful which is beautiful.
"Well, papa, what do you think of that party of city shop-keepers who
dined at the inn with us to-day? I heard one of the ladies say, 'I have
been so disappointed in my journey.' I dropped my knife and fork, and
exclaimed, 'Disappointed, madam! does not the fall look as high as you
expected?' 'Oh, child,' she replied, laughing, 'I was not speaking of
the fall; but I find it is quite too early in the season to travel in
the country. I have not seen a roast pig or a broiled chicken since I
left the city.' What do you think of that, papa?"
"Why I think, my dear, she is a vulgar woman, who travels because others
do; and is naturally disappointed in not meeting with the only
circumstances that could give her pleasure."
"There's Mrs. Hilton, papa, who, I am sure, is not vulgar--at least she
is as rich as Cr[oe]sus--and I heard her say to a gentleman, that if she
could have remained at the Springs, and then could have gone home and
_said_ she had been to the Falls, she should have been glad; for she was
sure no one came here but for the name of it."