_LIGHT AT EVENTIDE._
1839.
Spring had come. The aged Chief, who had passed the seventy-ninth
anniversary of his birth, sat propped up with pillows gazing at the
swollen torrent, with its seething, tumbling mass of white foam, as
it rushed with resistless power into the big cauldron below.
Through the half-open window the fragrance of blossoming fruit-trees
found its way into the room. From the eastern window he could see
the smoke rising from his innumerable factories and mills; through
the southern one the burnished roofs and steeples of the opposite
cliffs sparkled and glittered in the sunshine.
As he gazed thoughtfully at the panorama before him, he said to
Chrissy, who with her husband had carefully nursed him for five years
while suffering with a broken thigh, occasioned by a fall on the
pavement near the St. Louis gate at Quebec:
"It makes one think of time as it rolls on like a mighty rushing
river soon to lose itself in the vast sea of eternity."
Chrissy sat by his bedside reading, and seemed oblivious to the
remark. At length, looking up from the book with a face beaming with
satisfaction, she said:
"Do you know what the Surveyor-General says of you, father? I have
just been reading a marked copy of his Topographical Report to
William IV., which Mr. Papineau has sent, and in which he says, after
describing the advanced stage of civilization found in our township:
"'From whence are all these benefits derived? Whose persevering
talent and enterprising spirit first pierced the gloom of these
forests and converted a wilderness of trees into fields of corn?
Whose industrious hand first threw into the natural desert the seeds
of plenty and prosperity?
"'The answer is--Mr. Philemon Wright. Through hardships, privations,
and dangers that would have appalled an ordinary mind, he penetrated
an almost inaccessible country, and where he found desolation and
solitude he introduced civilization and the useful arts, and by his
almost unaided skill and indefatigable industry the savage paths of a
dreary wilderness have been changed into the cheerful haunts of men.
The gloomy upland forests have given way to smiling corn-fields. The
wet and wild savannas, sinking under stunted spruce and cedar, have
been cleared and drained into luxuriant meadows. The perilous
water-fall, whose hoarse noise was once the frightful voice of an
awful solitude, is rendered obedient to the laws of art, and now
converts the majestic tenants of the forest into the habitations of
man and grinds his food. The rivers and lakes, once fruitful in
vain, now breed their living produce for the use of human beings, and
with deep, rapid current transport on their smooth glassy surface the
fruits of his industry. The deep recesses of the earth are made to
expose their mineral treasures from the birthday of time concealed.
"'In short, the judicious and persevering industry of one successful
adventurer has converted all the rude vantages of primeval nature
into the germs of agricultural, manufacturing and commercial
prosperity.'
"It is true," she said, with great enthusiasm. "They may well
appreciate the great work you have done."
The tribute of praise seemed to make no impression on the Chief, who
sat silent and motionless, as though lost in thought.
"Shall I read to you, father, dear?"
"You may if you like," he said.
"What would you like me to read?" she asked.
"Read something that Solomon has written," said the Chief, who was a
grand Arch Mason and Knight of Malta, and who was not very familiar
with the writings of Solomon or any of the writers of Scripture.
Turning over the leaves of her well-worn Bible, Chrissy read from the
second chapter of Ecclesiastes the following words:
"I made me great works; I builded me houses; I planted me vineyards;
I made me gardens and orchards, and I planted trees in them of all
kind of fruits; I made me pools of water, to water therewith the wood
that bringeth forth trees; I got me servants and maidens, ... also I
had great possessions of great and small cattle; ... I gathered me
also silver and gold, ... so I was great, and increased more than all
that were before me; ... also my wisdom remained with me. And
whatsoever mine eyes desired I kept not from them, I withheld not my
heart from any joy; for my heart rejoiced in my labour.... Then I
looked on all the works that my hands had wrought, and on the labour
that I had laboured to do; and, behold, all was vanity and vexation
of spirit, and there was no profit under the sun."
The Chief gave a deep groan which caused Chrissy to close the book
hurriedly. Taking his hand gently in hers, she said:
"I fear that I have wearied you, or is it the old pain again?"
"It is true! it is true!" he said. "When I look back over the past
achievements of my life they are of no profit when viewed in the
light of eternity. The sun that has lighted our way, dear child, is
going down in a cloud--a dark, dark cloud!"
"Why is that, dear father? Have you not lived up to the family
motto--_Mens conscia recti_? Have you not always followed the
dictates of conscience?"
"Yes," he replied.
"Have you kept every command in the decalogue?"
"Yes," he said, confidently.
"And have you loved the Lord God with _all_ your mind and with _all_
your strength, and your neighbor as yourself? Have you always put
God _first_ in everything?"
Here the aged Chief hesitated. Tears were in his eyes, his hand
trembled, a look of pain came into his face, as he replied:
"No, Chrissy, I have not."
"Then you have broken the first and greatest command of God," she
said, "and St. Paul has said: 'Condemned is every one that continues
not in _all_ things which are written in the book of the law to do
them.' If dark clouds are overshadowing you, dear father, may it not
be because you have broken the law of God and are under His
condemnation?"
"I had hoped for comfort from you," he said, coldly, "but you have
made me miserably unhappy."
"Wait," said Chrissy. "This is the comforting thing about it all.
It says here in Galatians: 'Christ hath redeemed us from the
condemnation of the law, having been condemned for us.'
"Then if He paid the penalty of the faults and failures of my life, I
suppose I should have no anxious thought about the future."
"Quite so," said Chrissy.
"I never saw it in that light before," he said. "Why did you not
tell me this before, child?"
"Because," she replied, "I feared that you would scoff at my
'Quakerism,' as the boys call it."
In the few short weeks that followed, confidence and hope rose
triumphant over physical weakness and mental depression, and on the
second of June, 1839, the White Chief of the Ottawa passed through
"the valley of the shadow." To him it was not a dark valley,
however, for shadows cannot be seen in the dark. The Light of the
World, whom he had lost sight of for the best part of his life, was
there, and all was peace.
THE END.